A Father to My Son


At one end of the room my son sits in uncomfortable isolation.
At the other a man stands facing him, interrogating him,
in an increasingly aggressive manner.

I am standing to one side of his interrogator,
my wife and her son nearby me.

How long have I known him now: this young man
who is a part of me and I a part of him?

Only a year up to this point, perhaps,
but already he has become dear to me.

The man who raised him and pretended
to be his father has come to my home
not just ostensibly to discipline my son
but also to subtly establish his priority over me.

With every harsh word he stabs at my son
I wince with inner pain but yet I feel
I cannot protect him, I cannot intervene.

With his every word, however,
this man diminishes himself.
He shrinks in my estimation.
He no longer deserves my respect.
He is nothing to me.

Within a matter of weeks
my son will set out on a journey alone.

For many months he will live
an almost hermit-like existence
in an isolated part of Tasmania
caring for animals at a sanctuary there.

When he returns I can see that he has changed.

He knows now where he belongs.