He thinks of my son
as his own even though
my boy is 36 & mysteriously

estranged from the family, we don’t
even know why. Could it be
his blood dad never

really put him first
or that I swam
ahead of him treating

him like a fragile
duckling. He was my rare
bird, my wunderkind. Did I

squelch the piece
of him that needed to breathe, fly
or just plain relax? I imagine

him — my flawless son, my runaway,
my prodigal. I release
a handwritten message by way

of carrier pigeon. Until you return,
it reads. I am holding
a father for you.