was really nothing.
I was silent,
too caught up in the following to recognize him,
though I’d seen photos.                                      
                                           Mom took them,
the boy in a tailored suit,
on his trike or on the backyard swing,
the boy as master of the puppet show,
or sitting on Dad’s lap
(The Child’s World, Volume One, open to read),
proud creator of the model Alamo,
frowning into the sun with the Easter basket,
next to his Nonno who holds a drink, sporting a shiner
from a diabetic fall, the boy somber
looking straight ahead.                          
                                           Only when waking did I know him,
this guide to secret places. Now that he’s gone
with the fog of morning as I stepped over the boundary
into wakefulness,                             
                                 do I know what I would say.