I'm continuing with entries from my prison journal about my children and grandchildren. Last week was Alice. This week, her brother Nate.
NATE
Nathan—Nate. I loved you long before I knew
your name. And loved you more the day I heard it:
Nathan—No Nate said my son; maybe after seeing
the perfect sparkle of those blue pools, or maybe
it was the lurking rascal framed in your sly smile,
seemingly as permanent as a portrait.
You seemed to know me long before you
called me Papa. No one had to introduce
us, we know each other long before we’re
born.
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