Talk.

        TALK.

My son won't talk to me and I don't know why.
First, talk was endless when you were young.
Endless questions from you, endless know it all from me.
Later came discussion, both giving a view.
And last, now older your heartfelt truths and me told too old to understand.
No subject ever out of bounds, no age appropriate PG rating.
A subject understood is nothing to be feared.
Bullies and 'their' problems, kids with guns, philosophy and love.
Endless stopping of movies at the cry of an understood plot twist.
To remember what's his name in such and such another film.
The drive home from the cinema dissecting the director and looking at the clouds in the wide skies above the motorway.
"Gods in his heaven" say I and a roll of the eyes is your reply.
We used to talk too long at bedtime, asking just one last thing to keep me going.
"Enough and go to sleep".
A quick grip on shoulders and a bounce up and down in your mattress deep.
A half spoken, half giggled s-s-stop.
Then it's a quick, lights out, "goodnight", "love you".
A nice end to endless talking.

My son won't talk to me and I feel it's all my fault.
Whenever there were tears be it a fall or just upset.
I would soon say "come on, that's enough".
Quickly changing subjects, a trick of misdirection.
For me. To stop the gasping heartache of a parent hearing it's child in distress.
For you. A fathers clumsy attempt to toughen you up. So you won't be weak like him.
So much alike in temper, emotion and sensitivity.
Too sensitive for a world yet to come.
One which proved too much for him and so a worry for his only son.
In a love filled with watch what I watch, like what I like. Be like me.
Do not be me in sensitivity.
Be strong and without doubt.
Signs of weakness to be covered over.
Crying stopped and 'not' talked about.

I won't speak to my son.
I've tried but get no reply.
I've been replaced by console and  friends.
Talking to them is no chore.
I became something to be endured.
A kindness to a sick Father.
A pat on the back and it's fine Dad don't worry.
But it is a worry and let's be honest a pain.
Listening to the constant moaning on life, women and a world that just doesn't care.
Too much for you to care or even understand.
It all has a weight.
It's to much, to much.
And why should it be endured.
He's going through enough he wouldn't say.
I hear his thoughts through his mother, which is strange.
He doesn't talk at length with her about the great unknowns.
Yet, when he's troubled and low it's to mother he will go.
His innermost feelings on school, girls and me.
Subjects closed to a father with lonely single word answers.
Frustrated and annoyed, I'm left alone to be confused by my own unspoken thoughts.

My son won't talk to me.
No longer my boy, he's become his own man.
Now afraid to show those feelings.
Sensitive still, but bound by silence.
Not allowed to cry, to cry out his distress.
Now, unable to talk.
Yes, worried for a father who's ill and in pain, broken in body and mind.
Stressed by a mother quick to anger and annoying with meaningless requests.
Silently frustrated and angry with an unknowing man.
Yet eventually able to talk to a listening woman.
But you have worries of your own life now.
Your own problems to drag you down.
It's enough for any teenager to bear.
Why should you have to cope with an adults too?
To be a parent to them?
To be understanding and strong.
To be there for when 'they' cry.
Hamstrung by guilt, unable to voice these feelings, so as not to hurt another's.

My son won't talk to me, is it any wonder.
But he'll always be my wonder, someday to behold.