Step Father

He forgets that he used to call me mariconcito- that I harbored years of hatred toward him while hoping to find my real father. My childhood memories of him reminding me I was my mother's son, not his. I tried to poison him once and scattered sharp nails inside the shoes in his closet. By the time one of his sons died of AIDS I was already lost in contempt for the man I blamed for everything. There was the time I was in love and he met my boyfriend. Now he forgets to go to the bathroom or where he is but he still remembers Michael and asks about him. I help him walk slowly outdoors to step outside the prison cell that is the tiny apartment with no windows in which I grew up abused by both of them. He barely understands. His fate has been torture. I know that I cannot be his savior. I used to pray for him to die but here he is slowly fading. In his eyes I see that he learned to love me and wishes he could take it all back. He is unable to recall those drunken nights and hateful words. I should do the same. I left a long time ago but he still remains haunted by the little boy who wanted to belong. Like him, I want to forget that we made mistakes and caused so much pain. I need for both of us to remember how he taught me how to ride a bike and how to swim and told me, better late than never, that he loved me and was proud of all I had done. I have to help him settle into his favorite chair and let him know that I forgive him. There is a place somewhere where he will call me hijo and I will know him as my dad.