I've never read or posted any of these before and I assume I should write that I don't own anything. If I write anything beyond this, I'll be expecting the help of my four year old son. He's got a thing for Sakura.

Maybe, someday a son will come to understand his father and know why he did the things he did.

I look at our son and I think of you before I see you. Then I stare-here-there-your shade-eyes-eyes-darker gray centers like mine. Ours. He is ours.

Should not be yours. But it's a fleeting thought.

I see his hair. It is mine. You were relieved when he was born. And then empty. I understand as best as I can. You were connected to him in such a way I never can be. But his hair, you were relieved it was like mine, saying you had been looking so washed out lately.

But most women are sweaty messes, curled up on their sides, screaming in pain during birth.

You screamed at me.

Then you lay on your back and took my hand. It had been time to push.

Patronizing nurses. Doctors. "Good girl. That's it. Push. Now rest. And push again. Real big this time."

You had found the strength to bruise my hand. A bruise I wish was still here.

But if I want it, I go for it. You know that about me.

And naturally, he would have my hair. Like father, like son-grandfather-great grandfather. We all have it. And I still wish there were more of you in him.

His first words were "dada." Please don't be mad. It's phonetic. Da is easier to form in his mouth. Easier than ma. It's infantile but he was an infant then.

He doesn't make me mad, not like other men. Your father did. Still does. He stopped by yesterday to remind me why I wasn't good enough for you.

Because death is not good enough to remind me.

So when I put him down to nap or sleep-he sleeps through the night now-I walk to the dusty shed. I find my punching bag, waiting like you should be there. Anywhere. Our house. Our bed I haven't slept in for so long. I use the guest bedroom-shower-toilet and I never enter through the front door where we used to greet each other. It's sick. No welcome home kisses. Goodbyes-hellos-I love you. I'm having a hard time loving you lately but aren't I allowed to be angry? That's selfish. I love you.

I'm still angry. But you're still selfish in your own death.

But the shed. My punching bag. I grab the duct tape and permanent marker. I write down your name and stick it on the bag. The layers grow thicker with each passing day. I wrap my hands, a small gesture. It's the thought-not you. Never do I see you in this. I just think of you.

I lie. I see your smiles.

I go to work on your name for ten minutes, pounding it in, punching it, punching, punch, punch, punch for ten minutes. And then I unwrap my knuckles and replace your name with my own. I hate myself in physical pleasure for fifteen minutes until I bleed enough for the time being. Bloodied knuckles, I return to the house, wishing your bruise was still on my hand.

Don't worry. The baby monitor signal reaches but I swear to God I would hear him cry no matter the distance.

And I wonder, do you hear me? Do you hear us?

Do you want to?

You're still selfish in your own death and I'm still mad.

--This originally had nothing to do with Sakura but for Julie, I put it into these terms because she used to read Kakashi/OlderSakura here. Don't leave a comment if you're going to bash. I'm just trying to vent. Profile if you feel the need to know why.--