The inevitable argument over who slept the most, and the need to ship my son off to somewhere ,
to some place where supposedly they teach him things,
so I wake up and pop my bones , a skeletal refrain
the dawn pushing at me, in my blood, in my fathers blood, in all the fathers bloods before us. I pour my cup of coffee and it scalds my tongue, my eyes slits, surveying a hushed horizon of pink and dark greys filtering through the few leaves that early spring has summoned.
I pack my son’s lunch, I do this almost without thought, my hands the playthings of some more dependable and sober-minded me, doing the good job, that which must be done…. My mind wandering thinking of Seneca or Annie Dillard, about death , which comes whenever it wants.
And now his lunch packed and bag on his back, like some soldier, like all soldiers, sent to do a job no one has clearly explained to him, and me like all generals acting like I know what I’m doing, I send him away amongst a world of beings I don’t trust with faith I do not have in their actions or motives.
I wonder if he knows I’m growing up right alongside him, that everyday with him is more than any of my piles of books…
But I love him and this is all that matters.
Writings of Colby Bradshaw, Occasionally Photos. 