no more
such is the pattern of my life. a mother confuses a son's face with that of an old lover, laying animosity over the frail frame of innocence. a girl leaves a boy, however unconditional his love, for pudgy, smoke-filled lips and liquor bottles that circle the room. and now a father, in his infinite wisdom and judging right hand, pushes a son to tears, to breaking points, to things he'd never wanted or ever wished. scars that should never be passed from blood to blood. doesn't he see the weak knees of boys who turn to men? does he not remember? the way they stumble, their inclination to fall and how gravity rests itself on their backs. the labor of this transition reddens eyes, and has young men cracking ribs to remind themselves of faults in character. yet, when our fathers are our images of god, and the roles of immortals are left in the hands of men, it has sons feeling not simply removed from home but existential and removed from all. tossed from two kingdoms at once. no doubt i will hear of your justifications and your many reasons for the camel's broken back. rant, for it has always been a gift of yours, that fine talent to twist words, the skill to sway whims, the ability to adjust roles in mid-scene. i'm listening, for i know you love to speech. tell me more of the burdens you carry and the hardships of fathering that which cannot be saved. to move in the shadows like it does, to touch and break things as it will, to stink up the whole house, it turns your stomach. such a small, sickly creature. lord, how vile a beast, how a dark a stain, how heavy a load. you are undeserving, so curse the monster you have made in your loins. tell it how you've sacrificed, show it your scars, and be sure to clip it's wings as it has clipped yours. with red paint you will highlight it's flaws. like a bookkeeper you will log the shortcomings. like a lawyer you will prep your statements. exhibit a: a boy with lips that have been cornered to lie. compare his skinned knees to yours. let them see how you have overcome and how he has buckled. "when i was you age..." as if the sands of time never shift, "i would have never..." like you could wear a skin so tight, "you should have..." how terrible it must be to have all the answers and still not be able to get the marionette to dance. preach, for you are infallible as your father was infallible and surely the way his father was before him. it is a heavy burden to be the first in the family to sin. so take the child and skin him on the alter, let everyone see all the black he has bred. whatever happens, don't let him get off free, they've got to see the labor of your love. let him break as you have had to bend with his birthing. you have sacrificed, given your everything, including the better part of your sanity, to that fat, pink, fleshy little ball and chain. so take his finger and press it into his wounds. he can't forget what you've given up, because if no one knows of your suffering then there is no glory in it, only the pain. damn it, how long before he gets the hint? how many times must you threaten and tirade, speech and spiel, before he moves in the direction you've been pushing? you've never wanted the final blow, because the clean up is tedious and the fruits of your victory bittersweet, but shit, when will you be free? how long must you wade in quicksand before finding a branch? how much more can he take, does he not fatigue? how much longer can you keep this up? god, how much more must you pay for this same mistake?