We walk

you and I,

hand in hand

and I begin to talk

as if

you can understand me

 

It’s something I really struggle with

still. (Among other things, *sigh*)

 

Often I find myself

censoring what I say to you

because I figure, what’s the point

 

Isn’t that terrible?

It is. It is. It is.

 

But today, as we walk in the fading glow of the sun’s final curtain call

I hold your hand

tired of the uncomfortable silence between us

the one that has become so second nature

the one that will only fester and grow if I don’t put a stop to it

and  I speak to you the way I should speak to you, but often times don’t know how

 

I am timid at first

but soon my shyness gives way to

a conversation

one-sided in the eyes of a stranger

but I force myself to hope that you understand more than I often give you credit for

 

We walk

and I talk

and I take you to the place where

I fell off a moped when I was young and stupid and brave

and I tell you the story, in all it’s ridiculous adolescent glory

and even though it’s a story you may not understand (I have to find a way to be okay with that, don’t I?)

it’s a story you deserve to hear

 

It’s not perfect, this conversation

I stumble, trying to find the right words

My sentences meek, clipped, too carefully constructed

 

I stop in the middle of the street and search for signs that you are listening

that you have an opinion

that you even give a damn

 

and I am frightened that maybe you don’t.

that maybe you can’t.

 

But I keep on talking

while we keep on walking

because you are my son

because the right thing is rarely the easy thing

because if nothing else

you are worthy of the benefit of the doubt

 

and

more importantly

you are worthy of

the opportunity

to choose to

ignore me