The Moya View

Fathers and Sons: Walking the Broken Road

Image credit: William Mark Sommer.

He took his boy along the path 
to show him all the things he killed.
The rifles were left behind,
not in the truck, but at home,
secure in the gun case.
He had his fill of all that.

It’s been more than a year
since he closed the shop
and spent his golden moments
organizing the nuts and bolts,
the tools, cataloging all the
broken things he could fix
now that he had the
time to get to them—
“all the time in the world,”
his wife told him every day.

But today was for him— the boy,
not to fix anything, but
shorten the silence between them.

With each footstep the dust stirred,
their shop talk faded away
and he heard his own death
whispering to him somewhere
further down the way.

There was the silence where
it had been every day.

He wanted to get back
to the car and drive away,
just drive straight home,
But he could only cry.

The boy remained silent.
He shuffled his feet.
Finally, he hugged
the old man— a soft
caress that barely
touched the skin.

The old man raised his hands,
a little, than to his boy’s shoulders
feeling the large rip he torn into
his boys T-shirt when he dared try
to run away from his drunken fists.

The old man’s face turned red,
tinging to purple. He pushed
the boy away, dropping
his hands to his side. He stiffened
his spine and then turned and
walked away from the boy.
He drove away, leaving the
boy behind. The dust inside him
could never be forgiven and
the bottle at home was
demanding to be cuddled.

He would spend the rest of the day
using the weed torch destroying
anything that dare sprout on his
barren land.


One response to “Fathers and Sons: Walking the Broken Road”

  1. caroline46 Avatar

    Very very moving. Well written

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