I always felt older than you, even though you were
forty-eight (but not fifty) years my senior.
My instinct was to put out my arms so you could come
crawling, curling up in my lap, and I could
pet your thinning hair and whisper that I would never
let anything hurt you ever again. Kiss your
soft, shaking hands and shield you from everything.
You would alternate between calling me “Dad”
and calling me “kid.” I was embarrassed to say so, but I
loved it when you did. You were so sad
sometimes, and so nervous when we talked about ***
or our bodies. I didn’t have time to tell you
I could have moved you in a way you weren’t used to,
that the things you were embarrassed by were
okay with me. I wouldn't let you talk about death. So we
talked about Leonard Cohen instead.

And I keep wondering if your wife saw the same
tear stains I saw on the back of your shirt
before I got out of the car. I wonder what you
told her. Does she know the part about love?