I used to say, my son died. Now, I say, he passed away. I used to say, I have two children, then one, then two. Now, three. I used to say, this is fun. There was joy. Then, no more. The times that came, went. I went away when my joy left, that little boy, who became a man. Then, spirit. I thought I knew what love was. Is. I did. Then, I was confused. I lost it in the mire of hell, the Maya that covered the veil of love that I knew when I was knowing you.
You used to hide in clothing racks, I’d say, I’ll spank you, how you scared me that you’d be stolen by a stranger. I couldn’t spank you. Though I pretended to. Then, you grew, and hid from me, in a place I couldn’t see. It was stranger than the stranger. I could not forget it. Or you. (more…)