Dad is visiting next week. My little boy wants us to play like we used to, toss the ball around. He tells me he wants to help me around the house, with that leak in my roof. But if I could have anything at all I'd tell him that it wasn't enough, the way he loved me. "It wasn't enough!" I'd scream, at first. "It wasn't enough, dad. "It wasn't enough. And I forgive you. I forgive you, dad." And we would soften— him reaching out to me and me to him, and we would cry. And he would old me and he would stroke my hair and tell me, "I know, son. "I know— "I know." And then the big tears would come, the loud sobbing, like engine brakes or a lost donkey, mad at being found. And our heavy man-bodies would heave together— the sky caresses the earth— mammals burrowed in their nests— and then, when it's time— Only when it's time, would we stand up. And would we hug. And would we old each other. And time would wrap us like grandma's blankets. If I could really have anything at all, after all this, then we would walk back to the village and take up our stations of love beside eachother, two men with so much to share... But all that we share stands between us like sentries on a castle wall and trying to speak these words I'm adolescent, stumbling and awkward and there is no village and he's one of the island men, who's fathers left him lost at sea.