I don’t recall him being born, my son.
Not enough, anyway. I remember scenes
from the day: the blood; the unexpected
bright colours of things that came out in the
amniotic fluid; the hospital smells; the
echoes; and the dawn, the brightness
of the early morning sunlight. I remember
his surprising black hair and scrunched
eyes and seeing his mother’s nose stuck on
his face. I remember those things. But I don’t
remember the feeling of him, coming to me
in that moment, being suddenly real and here.
I don’t remember that. Becoming a father
crept up on me. I wish I had paid