I don’t remember what book
I read to him
or which striped pajamas he wore.
I don’t remember how long
it took him to fall asleep
or if I was short with him.
I don’t remember how many times
he asked for water, or
climbed out of bed.
I don’t remember
kissing him goodnight.
I don’t remember pulling
the blanket
over his body.
I don’t remember the moment
he fell asleep.
I don’t remember
turning off his light.
I remember him waking to use the
bathroom, his face in the hallway—
eyes half-mast.
I remember hoping
he wouldn’t wake again
until morning.
I remember the guttural sound coming
from his room—a cross between a seal’s
bark and a human grunt.
I remember worrying
he had croup.
I remember finding him
in his bed on all fours
like a woman bearing down.
I remember yelling for him
to come back.
I remember looking
into his eyes searching for my son,
seeing my dead father, instead.