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Echoes In
My Mind
Affection.
The son squirmed in delight and produced an innocent,
high pitched giggle. They had somuch love for each other.
The both of them.
He’s a genius; the father would say. To
all
his friends.
They’d envied him; the lot of them.
Wished their sons were like that. It was always like that.
He’d never waste an opportunity to tell everyone.
As he’d walk hand in hand with his son; he’d failed to see
past his pride. His son had grown tired of his father’s
endearment. He’d felt tormented; confused; used.
He failed to see that he’d grown upset. Or that his son no
longer beamed in the palm of his father’s hand. That he
was nothing but a commodity to his father, the man
who’d loved him the most.
The son’s love dwindled by each sunrise and sunset.
Yet, the father never noticed. The boy was still his
beautiful son.
‘
I watched the man.
His hands trembled, as he clumsily packed the roll full of
tobacco. He coughed as he struggled to keep a hold of the
structure. The floor became littered with remnants of
this substance he was so hopelessly addicted to.
His trembling hands reached deep into the enclaves of
the bag. Desperation written over his face as tried to
retrieve the last of the contents. He winced as he found it
empty.
Flustered, he threw the empty bag away and watched the
wind carry it away into the emptiness. He’d let his mind
wander.
He’d wondered where it would let the wind carry.
He wasn’t always a deep thinker. Guess thinking’s the
only thing that anyone can do; if there ain’t anything to do.
He’d wondered about Lucy
He’d wondered about Matilda.
Elizabeth
Little John.
Mother.
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