Dispatches #11: The Father — It Speaks
The father speaks: Anyone should fulfill much prophecy to survive. The real person, the good person, will make even more than that to allow the family to prosper. That I studied to do; that the father learned me to do. It—one thousand ways to hurt. One thousand ways to finish a life. One thousand plus one more way to be last person upright.
When I was the certain age there was a place the father has taken me. A place where the father teaches the boy how to be the father. The high building, the broken windows, the dark blue painful dark blue sky. Dead plastic trees with wide leaves which the father has told belonged more on isle of pale dirt granules. Wide branches now the soiled brown color with dirt of our world. I have taken my lesson: the broken cheekbones, black eyes, poignant lips, seeping voice hole. Any tears? Ha! Not that.
Then once, a day, I has told the father, Enough.
You thinks so? the father has asked.
I nodded and we went it at.
It proceeded a long time. A bone on a flesh. A throw of bodies across the concreted floor. Scratching blindly—which? what?—something to be broken in a skull. Grunting. Deleting of blood, sweat, from eyes. Seeing only fluctuation of a fist, a whipping cord, a piece of a wood, regardless, of the fact that could be. Giving feedback naturally in return—a thousand thousand multiple—to the father. Returning of blessing. One thousand bloody angels kisses in a blush of fists. In my head: A bright kaleidoscope star, hot and sick. The tide sweeps back and forth but as with the moon turns one way to the end.
At last, the father smiled to me, searched in me through a bloody, bleeding profusely teeth. Now my work is made, he has told. Now you have learned that I can teach you. Now you can support the family.
It is the theory, philosophy.
The father, I speak every day in my breath, before each action, each sin, I should transfer to be the family man for me and my beloved Fanta: Many thanks.
