Blood and Bred

     It had never entered his head that his son was not his own blood. For the moment, he just sat there. Unable to shift his mind from that thought. His son was not his own blood. The heavy feather shook lightly between his hands. All he could do was continue to stare.
     "I know it's hard," a voice from somewhere nearby cooed to him. "I know."
     The man still hadn't looked up. His mind was racing a million miles a minute. His son was not his own blood. How could he not know this. All this time; all the time they had spent together. The endless hours in front of the TV or in the yard or playing charades at half past one in the morning. If the person who he relied on, leaned on, trusted, raised, was his entire world, wasn't his own blood, he didn't know what else he could possibly believe from now on.
     "Sir?" A moment. That voice from behind was back. "Sir. I must ask you to leave now. There are others still waiting." The voice was insistent. But nonetheless, it helped him to his feet and led him towards the door. The little bell above their heads gave a little ring as they stepped out into the cloud covered streets of town.
     Taking a couple steps forward, that voice became distant, more and more distant, for it had returned to its position at its desk, perhaps calling the next person in line from its neat list on a neat clipboard with everything in order right where it should be. All the while, he kept his head down, mind still pondering, wondering, as he walked to his old pick-up with the left tail light still shattered from that time he let his boy take it out for a spin. But that was years ago. Before he thought to question any of this. And much before he got his answer.

     The roads stretched long and winding, carrying him north to where the train would take him back. Back to the city. Back to his home. Granted, he didn't know what his home would feel like, but he was going back there anyway. He had to.
     The old pickup was quite the truck. Its color had all long ago faded and flaked, the rust barely wanting to stick around. The license plate was no different. The code was no longer legible through the endless layers of grime coating its once pristine white face.
      He and his son had always talked about getting a new car. Maybe a nice new one, too, and not some old second hand buster fresh out of its shed like they one they had. The one he still has. At the time, his son was almost old enough to drive, so the thought of a new car was Heaven.
     I guess that means he's got the windows down on his new dream ride, racing through the streets like he'd always dreamed he'd do if given the chance. Well, I guess up there he's got all the time in the world to chase his dreams on whatever wheels he wishes.

     Time passed. Slowly, but it passed. The train was coming into view of the looming concrete jungle. Tower after tower of glass and movement and ambition and rush. The city. Where everyone everywhere was always in a rush. To meet someone. To finish work. To be the first. To get home.
     To get home. Yes, he was in a rush to get home.
     But, without his boy, he didn't know what home would feel like. Or even what home was. The word now felt vague and  foreign on his tongue.
     Since the day he was born, it had been just them. A father and a son. Happy as can be. The son grew up amongst the bustling streets and crowded sidewalks. He went to school. He made friends. And sometimes, his friends would come over and they'd have parties and sing and dance and "raise the roof," as the kids had once said. Then they would settle in for one of those superhero films and make popcorn and throw it at the captivating screen, booing at the villians and cheering on the heros. Then his friends would go back to their own homes come first light and his son and he would be left to clean up the mess, and sometimes even make more of one on their own.
     Life was good for them.
     Then It came and took him. His son. Away from him. It came and It turned their quaint little apartment upside down. The windows were shattered and the glass laid sprawled across the dirt-layered rug. The couch was flipped over and the TV laid collapsed on its side. The fridge had toppled down onto the stove, leaving a flame burning on the metal plate. Too bad wood is flammable. Too bad flesh is flammable. Everything valuable had been taken. Including him. My boy. I looked for justice. I looked and I looked and I looked.
     Nothing.
     But at least he's with the angels now. Yes, that's where he is. Right now. Up there. With the angels.
     And it doesn't matter that a year ago a letter in the mail hinted a flaw in our life. It doesn't matter that it told me to call that clinic outside the city and ask some questions. It doesn't matter that they told me that my son was not my own. He was still my son, blood or not.
     He is still my son.