A Father's Story

by Lionel Dahmer

And so, my son was still alive. I couldn't bury him. I couldn't remember him fondly. He was not a figure of the past. He was still with me, as he still is.

I often think of him in that initial innocence. I imagine the shapes he must have seen, the blur of moving colors, and as I recall him in his infancy, I feel overwhelmed by a sense of helpless dread. I consider his eyes, blinking softly, and then I remember all the horrors they will later see.

It is impossible to reconcile these visions, or to escape their sadness.

In a sense, his childhood no longer exists.

He seemed smaller, somehow more vulnerable, perhaps even sadder than at any time before.

In a sense, I suppose, we were two lonely people.

This dreadful silence we called peace.

a man whose son was perhaps only the deeper, darker shadow of himself.

“Do you forgive your son?" Yes, I do. But should he forgive me?

Fatherhood remains, at last, a grave enigma, and when I contemplate that my other son may one day be a father, I can only say to him, as I must to every father after me, "Take care, take care, take care."