It was my son, my father

I napped on the floor,
on a mattress.
He slept on the bed.
He got up many times
to go to the bathroom
and I accompanied him.
He was my son, my father.
I who had lived half
of my life overseas,
was there, within reach
of his faint sounds,
in the bedroom that was mine,
that was his,
that was ours.
I switched on the light
and we went (the two of us),
walking slowly
the short distance
to the bathroom.
He was my son, my father.