His Name I can't recall ever uttering the words dad-dad, much less ma-ma
I always called my mother by her name
It wasn't a sign of disrespect because she and I both knew it was the same
Unlike most mothers, mine never scold me for it
Instead she was flattered and gave me nothing but praise
I must have counted to 10 too many times
Because I said my mothers name passed the number 99
So much so, that my fathers name became an imaginary number
I saw my fathers imaginary self for the first time
When he rang the bell a little after nine with his obscure shadow in front of mine
And, in my little space between the door
I stood and called out my mother in a quiet roar
Here I was standing by a man who somehow knew my name
And, all I could say was, "this man, this man was standing in my way"
It was then I knew I was a fatherless child
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