A New Year's Resolution

I resolve to stop driving past your house,
knowing I won't knock on your door.
Not today, maybe not.
Maybe, if I see some sign of life.
A flower pot moved into the sun or an open curtain.
Anything to entice me to your door
and ask the question I don't want answered
and maybe ask forgiveness for buckling under the weight
of a burden no rational man would lift,
but a boy would raise high and carry,
and I did. 
I have to know if you know
what you cost and what you bought.
Maybe you know,
maybe you always knew,
maybe you never cared,
maybe you never thought of it,
maybe it never mattered at all.
I did not leave.
I did not run away.
I did not hide.
I just stepped outside for air,
a boxer's minute between rounds,
just to breathe deep and stand at the bell,
gloves at my chin, ready to swing and jab.
The ceiling caved in behind me 
and you were in the wreck,
buried under debris a boy could not lift. 

So I drive past your house, 
not so far out of my way,
not so much time out of my day,
and know one day you will be there.
I will stop and act as if it was just chance.
Act as if I recognize you through forty years
and wait for you to answer every unasked question.