We watch our sons grow, and hope and work for the best, but it’s like the weather -- you make plans, and then it’s out of your control. I watched my son grow and mature, and when he was very little I was secretly a bit disquieted by how unexceptional he was. Bright and healthy, and a joy to me, honest, kind, but just the vocabulary of a regular kid. I’d use words he didn’t understand, and I’d think, why doesn’t he understand that? -- this is how I talk. But I didn’t press him. We want our sons to be taller than we are, and stronger, and smarter. Well, I did, and you do -- not the case with my own father, but that’s a different story. Most, however, we want them to be useful and honorable men. To find what is worthy of respect is a duty, and privileged, and pleasure.
I went online and searched my boys’ names, my lost boys. I've done this every few years. Now maybe I found one of them in Fresno -- right age, right name, went to a high school that’s a most likely possibility. Brown hair, blue eyes, six-three -- check, check, and makes sense. Inferentially, the right zodiacal sign. Dim memory confirms the name of a younger brother, now a "stoner". Involved in video game design, reportedly, which could work -- my boy wanted to design robots. Went to a state college. Says he's an artist and writer -- ungrammatical, sadly. Says he's the most truthful person you'd ever meet -- ask him anything.
Several pictures, on various sites. It might be him. This was the boy who -- when he was nine, and just come to me, out of the vast orphanage group home -- lay in a crumple and cried at night because he could not remember his mother’s face. The one who tried to kill him by taking him onto a freeway -- I mean, walking and pushing. The crack whore, seven kids by six different men, who abandoned him to the institution when he was four. And here I am, not sure that I recognize his face. Well, I'm not good with faces, and it’s been half his lifetime since last I saw him, pubescent. It might be him.
Has a son, but doesn't want to talk about it on facebook. Works in a game store, smokes a lot. "Buddhist." Sometimes silly, sometimes shy. Just wants "to have fun". Entered on several sex hookup sites under a user name. He's looking for "some fun" with two lesbians. Fetishes: tattoos and role play; likes "doggy style" and group sex ("Orgy and/or Gang Bang"). The internet forgives nothing.
But yes, it's him. Growing conviction re the picture. And I just found the birthday. I have no plans on initiating a facebook contact -- "poke"?
And I definitely found the other one. Full tripartite name, date of birth. Charged with a felony in another county -- assault with a deadly weapon, other than firearm, with great bodily injury ... carries up to a four year prison term. Well, he pulled a knife on me once. He's grown an inch and gained 50 pounds -- heavier than me now. I have to expect that it’s fat. No mug shot. He’ll be 30 in August.
I don’t know what I feel. It’s too buried. All I have available is platitudes, with which to soothe myself? I expect I saved their lives, somehow. I taught the one to read, and brought him up 5 math levels in three months. Seems like necessary preparation for designing video games, or robots. At least he finished high school, and perhaps college. The other one, I just don’t know. At least he's still alive, or was in May of 2012. But I was steady, and calm, and unflagging in my dedication. I loved them and they knew it. Love is not enough, of course. It’s like weather -- sometimes it brings catastrophe.
I have written in sand.
Getting some painting done, and some cleaning, etc. Gonna work through the night. I think of many interesting things. I should write them down.
Ah. Here it comes.