From up above I heard the door,

Slamming shut.

And through the room came my father, 

A blur.

On that, the day of two fathers' birth,

When one was no more.

Up the stairs I climbed in fear, 

Anticipating a calm before the storm.

There it was, open and beckoning,

Sitting in the center of the room.

The toy chest I had come to know, 

Was unhinged and splintered.

I turned it right side up,

To face a mirror – staring.

The image of a fair skinned man,

With rough chinly subble,

and the hint of his eyes,

carrying bags.

I returned to my father, 

and showed him my mirror.

And he bowed his head,

and knelt before me,

Squeezing his hands over mine, 

While a single tear

dripped onto my mirror.

And that night, 

My father didn't tuck me in – under my covers.

He left me for yonder,

While me dreams were squandered,

on that night: the night of broken mirrors.

I became a man,

With the turn of a back,

and the slamming of a door...

On that, the night of two fathers' birth,

When both had become no more.