What Goes Into Being a Father
Because the boys on the street beat your skinny ass and called you bastard. Because the man in the suit and stethoscope said he was your dad but only stayed long enough to give your feverish twin sulfa. Because you and your brother fought the street rats with garbage can lids and sticks. Because the Chicago Nazis beat up your brother. Because your sister fed you mustard sandwiches for the second night in a row. Because your mother slumped in the door laden with sewing to do on the side, which meant until after midnight, every night. Because you punched Jack Schwartz for painting that word on the door your mother came home through. Because you were sent to Korea with quartermaster training and a gun. Because you went to college on the GI bill. Because your bride grew up in a Shirley Temple bubble. Because the nurse carried your new daughter out and rolled her into your arms. Because you didn’t know how to be a father, you listened to Billy Bigelow’s “Soliloquy” on the radio and then prayed with one eye open. Because you prayed, you didn’t leave. Because you didn’t leave, I had the father you never had.
When You Keep Sucking It Up Too Long
John lifted his chin to shave underneath and saw the ulcer. A thin layer of clear gelatinous pus pooled within the borders of the wound. As he finished shaving, his thoughts collected around his need to approach his boss, to hash out the line John envisioned in the interminable sand of his work life, and he forgot about the find. Watching television that night, he rubbed an itch and felt the wetness. Since it stained his finger, he stuck a Polysporin-dabbed Band-Aid over the spot. Next morning, he pulled off the bandage and a curdled hunk of blood and pus fell into the sink. The opening was now large enough to place his thumb. He used a Q-Tip to fish around in there, and an unformed blackness spilled from his face. Gauze and duct tape cut to fit served to cover the gap. He decided not to shave. A beard might disguise the issue until it is resolved. In the second meeting of the day, the weight of tiny ball-bearing balls took the bandaging with them as they hit the conference table with tiny rattling clunks as they pinged and crashed into each other on their way to the floor. That night the hole had expanded to his neck and upper chest. A wolf emerged, found its equilibrium, and raced away through an open window. Next day John went to his boss’ office and demanded the raise he hadn’t received for the past three years. His boss looked surprised at John’s intensity and said he didn’t realize it had been so long and John had seemed so happy, smiling at everyone all the time. Next day, John’s chin had begun to heal. If he remembered not to smile unnecessarily, the wound would completely heal.
