bookends of his frame

In memoriam, to the one biological dad, on his birthday

bookends of his frame

He drew his first breath in the shadow of iron—
June of forty-two, when the world was loud,
unmaking its walls with fire and grease,
and every window wore a strip of tape
to hold glass against shaking earth.

In that room, someone rinsed their hands in a metal basin,
and his father checked the latch twice before stepping inside,
a small, steady habit of practical vigilance
that would follow him through the years.

A birth certificate stamped in the middle of a siege,
where the only certainty was the weight of air
and a collective holding of breath.

Then, a long, undulating interlude.
Decade on decade where concrete cured,
lines grew straight,
and fashioned an ordinary life 

built, brick by ordinary brick,
far from blaring sirens.

Moving through frames with practised steadiness,
tightening a hinge before it could complain,
lining his shoes beneath the same chair each night,
checking the yard before anyone else woke,
keeping a drawer of tools arranged by feel alone —
the slow accumulation of a maintenance ethic
that held countless days in place.

But the exit was drafted in a different dark.
April of twenty-two, when the world was still,
unmaking its gatherings with a clean, sterile fear.
No bombs this time, just long silent corridors,
the soft hiss of oxygen through plastic,
and faces split by synthetic cloth.

Even then, he adjusted the blanket with unsteady hands,
nodded when someone entered,
tracked the doorway as if waiting for a routine to resume —
the evening check, the quiet walk,
the last look at the yard.

These were his end‑stage continuities,
habits that outlasted the world around him.
A final account closed behind a barrier of glass,
where many a world, once more,
held their disconnective breath.

.