by Alain Obando

Created on: August 11, 2008   Last Updated: August 12, 2008

I guess this is when effort is discouraged by the facts of reality;
my immediate emotions are disturbed. As much as I would like to be his parental guide,
Im interupted by the lack of resemplance both hireditary and biological
and notice myself trying to hide the biological truth but fail in all attempts.
And every time a liquid absorbing, plastic cloth wrapped around his pelvis

is removed and discarted, the stench forms a desire to be swallowed up by the very air I breathe,
and every 180 minutes that pass, the harmonics that emmit from his larynx devour
the peaceful silence and puke the sleep from my eyes onto a bib. Then I begin to compose strategic
techniques that will allow me to feed him, burp him and lay him back to sleep
as quickly and effeciently as humanly possible; Just to be able to resume a well needed,
peaceful rest. But after a few tries I shred the page I wrote those useless ideas down on into microscopic, little peices
that now leads me to question my permanent ability to patrol such an unstable schedule.
But, despite all of that, I've come to admire the phrase that a father is he who raises, which
is what his grandfather said, for it alone murders the disappointment and opens the door to
imagine only his opinion of me as opposed to the world's when he's capable of expressing one.
And so the daily work proceeds more willing, I stand waiting for his formula mix to warm
to a comfortable temperature, prop 10 pounds to a comfortable position and
feed the hunger, then thank God for him rather than complain about my physical alements, for in his eyes I see the
simple truth that drowns my version of such complicated deceit, which describes my
point of view... that should remain my principal: to raise him as though I were the one who had him..
could i put it more simpler?

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