Watch

Dark as Egypt, cold as ice, the garage sustains me through unending nights. An army green inflatable pad rolled out to fit the length of the white Isuzu Rodeo, to be closer to you, child of mine. It sufficed. Before 911, every corner camera, no one knew. Not even you. After our visit, before the next. Night after disquieted night.

I am depleted from what has become the war to get you well. Too weary to breathe, Boston Children’s Hospital parking garage affords me a semblance of repose. You confined across the street, only steps away, behind the locks and bars, on Bader 5.

Quiet. An occasional lost or bereft parent driving home rouses me from my drowse. I turn, drag your warm, boy worn sleeping bag over me. Your sleeping bag, how it comforts me in the oily depot. Pilled flannel infused with the scent of your presence.

Light beams from the one security gent making his rounds. I flatten myself. Sink deep into the floor, pour my tired body into the spare tire well. Cover my head with the sleeping bag. Fill my lungs with your essence. My heartbeat quickens, breath is held.

Unseeing, he moves on. I exhale. Again, inhale the fragrance of you.

Crouched on hands and knees, through an open space on parking level P4, I spy the brick walls of Bader 5. A dim light in a tiny window refuses to reveal if it is yours. I believe it is.

During your interminable nights, you are unaware. But my orders from your captors, your doctor are clear. “Don’t tell him your feelings or your thoughts.” Yet they overflow the Isuzu Rodeo, level P4, Bader 5, Boston, all of earth, precious child.

I keep watch over you.

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