I think I might not know my son.
I'm not sure who he is, though I live with him –
a little eight-year old boy – just the two of us, living together
in a little apartment downtown.
I think we are lonely with each other there.

We are both tired and fed-up at the end of the day.
I say, Take off your shoes. Help me with this.
Wash your hands. Set the table. Sit down.
Then I have to repeat myself.
He tells me he loves me when he knows he's in trouble.

He can't wait not to have to look at me or listen to me,
so he shuts his bedroom door
and leaves me standing in the hall.

We spend the day apart, but it is not enough time.
It must be very unpleasant, living with someone like me.

I don't know which books to buy him,
or how to make him read one book over another.              
I look at children's books in stores,
but the books make me sad.
The comics are angry and ugly,
the other children's books are simple and foolish;
those ones must be below him, but then
I might not even know how old he is.

The summer comes and he is relieved school is over.
He begins to eat more and sleep better.
He begins to relax and thrive.
He is confident and contented.
He goes to day camp, and it is satisfying for him:
they swim and play games all day and the kids get tired out.

But the good changes the summer brings
aren't enough for the two of us; we need something more.
His father takes him on the train to see his grandparents,
and I spend the whole week trying to calm down.

I leave him alone for a few days, then finally I call.
He is reluctant to take the phone.
When he does, I think it's a joke:
someone is pretending to be my son, but it is he;
there's a little man on the other end, his voice deeper,
his words bigger than I remember.
It's the voice of someone I've never met.

Then he becomes impatient, and wants to get off the phone
so he can return to playing with his cousins.
He can't wait to get rid of me,
so that by the time I hang up,
I think I might know who that was.