You flew and now as I search the internet late at night (your sisters and the little brother you haven’t met sleeping) I find evidence that you’re flying! The photo on your Facebook page that wasn’t there before! Your friends, you alive and a few wall post throwaways and that picture! Like a rock star you with the sleeves under your T-shirt, the angles askew and your face turned aside (and a fedora-ed friend behind) as if you might be art work on the cover of a disc you pressed. What would the music be? What is the music, my boy? You know, I sit in a chair every other week and talk to a psychiatrist about you. There I am with my tie and my years and the knowledge of how I lost you. Stolen under cover of darkness. At night I try to find you after the children and the dishes and past the time when I should be sleeping. Words I’ve found, even a letter you published in The Age. But this picture! My god I can see myself in you, small as it is, small as I am as I wait for you to come back to me. The psychiatrist says you will; he says the bond is never broken. I am well past forty and you will be seventeen next birthday. Answer the texts I send, the emails. Friend me on Facebook, why doncha?