Woodsmoor

He was here last week. I caught a glimpse of him as he stepped from the carriage, dressed for office work, carrying a fine case and the morning paper. I recognized him from the photos my mother had shown me. He looked strong and determined. I have lost the inclination to ask why he left. It seems unimportant now that I have seen him again. I I can talk to him if he remembers me. We are flesh and blood, after all. I know it was him. My mother tells me I look like him. He will want to stop and talk., I know he will. Maybe lunch together. Or a walk in the park. I have so much to tell him. Today he's not there. Maybe he missed the train. I'll try again tomorrow. What will I say. Hello. I'm your son. I'll wait to see if he's on the next train.