He crawls on the floor. Laying in bed I have a peripheral view. He stands up and bumps with tables and chairs and anything that is on his way. Holding onto the wall, silly and tall, He helps himself to walk! His amorphous body reaching out for me. I pretend I am asleep. My soul young, bitter, and frustrated. My body tired and in denial refuses to help. Yet my ghostly and slender self surrenders and goes to him. It always does. A part of me feels satisfied that the Beloved wanderer has finally arrived. I help him crawl to bed. I take of his shoes and then.. He drools on my shirt. I feel so disgusted! For he is not my child He is my drunken husband.