Alphabet Soup

 I am nothing. You are in the midst of the hyphen of your tombstone.  An idea, a figment A pigment stain on the picture of your future. You could not possibly conceive that soon you would conceive what will grow to be a realization of me. We split. In a room of white walls, white lights and wide eyes. Your arms, treetops to rockaby babies staying steady in tornado.            Now I am 11. You are 41.  Baby came down quite a while ago. Learned to walk on the branches and climb down. But this was symbiosis. You grew weak and so did I. WE were weak in your absence.  Absence ended in return of withered bones and quivering limbs covered reptilian skin. Reptiles, when warm blooded, are more adapt. Bigger hearts held tight. Lacking slack with all the love packed in.           I am 14, you are 44. And half way back to health. Back to carpools and school routine. Nobody has the time to stay at home so you just stay at home. That's what makes it home.  Home has no limitations on visiting hours. Home has specialty meals. Home has no beeping hospital bed.  Home is where you taught me all men must die.  That no man should cry because tear used for the treetops are inadequate irrigation. Home is where we left you alone at home.              I am 15  you are 45. We all left home. You are subject to a beeping hospital bed. We are subject to limited visiting hours. You will not be there when we make it home. It will be a house. 2 parts broken children 1 part abandoned spouse. I am so glad that you taught me that all men must die. I wish you would have taught me how not to cry. I would choose to walk to remainder of my miles in your shoes if only the shoe fit. My faith in god was twice as terminal as you but only ever died when you did.             I am 18, you are 45.  I am 24 you are 45.  I am 32 you are 45.  45 in a box.  45 rotting.  45 silent.  45 and gone.  I am 45.  I am a poet pushed to produce a manifest of a your olden alphabet soup. Its been thirty years and tears still have never been shed on the stump of the treetop.  I've missed you and  You've missed my milestones.  We'll call it even.  Sometimes I hear you call my name in the squeak of the floor board.  I would write to you but the messenger and I aren't on speaking terms.  I am 45. You are 45. We are 45 and you've left me alone at home.