Tonight I saw him.
I held him for an hour as he sobbed in my embrace.
Fourteen.
He should be happy with family and friends.
Fourteen.
Laughter should fill his life.
Fourteen.
Vicarious mischief should surround him.
Fourteen.
Not the barren walls of
a behavioral crisis intervention center
enduring
withdrawal from years of drug therapy
in order to find the real person.
Fourteen.
Fetal alcohol syndrome,
bipolar disorder
and
none of it his doing.
Fourteen.
I want my son in my home
in my arms.
Yet
despite the unconsolable ache in my heart,
I know it is not best that he be home
now.
Fourteen.
He cried in my arms
like the baby I remember
as we rocked
and
said our
words of
I love you.
Fourteen.
God, he is only a boy.
Hold him.
Give him peace
and
the comfort of
knowing
how much we love him.
But damn it, God,
why him?
Good. It will be good.
I believe.
