Blind

There are times when taking a break from writing is all I want to do, like when memories are forced to conjure up disquieting images the way King Saul pled with the Witch of Endor to summon the spirit of Samuel, dusty and irritated, from the grave.  

King Saul would go on to pay a price for this.

Images give birth to thoughts and then thoughts to the words which, once expressed, we claim a sort of parental responsibility for, whether we are prepared for this or not.

Denial became something akin to a ground-fault circuit interruptor when my thoughts threatened to shock my system. Fearing for the tow-headed boy's life,  fearing for his reputation (it was also fear for my own, if truth be told), I spoke over him words - marching orders, really - that coaxed darkness up from the ground that threatened to swallow him whole - that threatened to send him to his death.


You need to keep this to yourself.  

Don't tell anyone else you're gay.

We can't let your grandfather find out - it'll kill him.


Fear had had its say, and in those dusty, irritated, grave-words, shame was born.

This son of mine - this one who was always so eager to please, so agreeable and cooperative - looked down at the floor, unblinking, and kept his eyes there for a long time.  What he saw, I couldn't know.

What I did know, though, was that I couldn't see a damned thing.