Father's Last Word To His Son

Thu, 09/05/2013 - 16:13 -- Prog

Location

The icy wind peels back your outer core

Unprotected; as you were from the moment

The contractions won and you tasted

Bitter, bloody air. You close the door.

Turn, and face the face of pity. Snarl at it.

Put it in its place, you're not the one who

Needs it. No, not for all the blood and gore,

The gnarled metal, oozing grey and red,

Silver and bronze, flesh and aluminum,

Touched the handle on the car door

Wouldn't open. Beyond repair. No return to the norm

 

But please God! No pity! Cars do it all the time -

Unreliable things. A fluke and nothing more.

I understand, yo comprende, capisce? Save your

Dewy-eyed consolations for a less logical victim.

Yes, I know I was driving. I drive all the time.

Yes I know I was drinking, it's a habit of mine.

The car was old; the breaks were bad; the truck

Came out of the shadows of the starless night -

Why was I driving? What, I can't drive my family

Every once in a while, give my parents a break?

Give my sister a little thrill, big brother driving

The big car? Can't I drink in the privacy of my room?

See how quickly pity turns to accusations.

The breaks were bad! I swear - he's swaying -

We'd had to look at them a couple times before!

Get those looks off of your faces....

I know she was your sister...your son....your niece!

I'm not to blame...you vermin! He's on the floor!

 

The room is fading yellow. Pans out of focus

To a dozen eyes piercing you with pity, spearing you

With shame, all acute and only half-sympathetic.

THEY WERE MY FAMILY TOO! Aloud but only

To yourself. The desperate reverberations in your voice

Don't reach your relatives' ears as you are carried,

Much like the first hours of life, in their mature arms.

Thing's had a breakdown. Must be the guilt.

 

A sad scene; a Morose Procession leaves a white church;

A service cut short by the outcry of you, the perpetrator

Who can't recognize facts; now twitching and sobbing

In the arms of those who don't really want to be holding you.

Newspaper reads: Fatal Drunk Driving Accident On 84.

How else to put it? Drunk son accidentally murders

His family? Yes, it will come to you. The guilt. For now,

You will live alone, in a seething lie, blaming the car,

Its maker, its seller, its maintainer, any and everyone -

But the truth will dawn. It will emerge out of your

Body, through the organs, flexing the skin til it bursts

Out, out in the open! You will be free! You will realize

 

You

Are

To

Blame.

 

It will swim through your veins, cleansing you;

Rightful responsibility will make you light.

I can see you from my spot in heaven;

Do this, my son, and you'll be alright.

 

Comments

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741