first draft:
He would take another sip of beer, (the edges of his day (smoothing) the edges of his day). His tongue would loosen to questions never asked and the answer, always, the same: economics. My father justified everything by bill paying, the holding of steady work, of having money in reserve. He lived in these narrows, sitting in his onion garden, an ice chest dog loyal by his feet (loyal as the dog he refused to own). The message was clear. Work and you are of value. But not just value. It was unquestioned value. Value beyond reproach. Or so it seemed as I listened to answers from questions I never asked.
He has been dead now half a dozen years. His words, however, have lived a bit longer. I needed help to see them as they were, as I was, (as it could be). (That there could be) A life beyond economics, beyond the (those) narrow straights to a larger body, one that could (large enough to) dissolve the salt of pain and (still) give life. She gave me this. A sense of value, of worth counted not in coin but of a different ledger. She gave me eyes. And, forgiveness. One could say, I suppose, she softened the edges of my day(s). I’d like to tell him of these things, if I could. But I can’t. He does not now, as he did not then, have the ears for such a conversation.
__________
second draft:
He would take another sip of beer, smoothing the edges of his day. His tongue would loosen to questions never asked and the answer, always, the same: economics. My father justified everything by bill paying, the holding of steady work, of having money in reserve. His wallet looked liked an overstuffed hamburger. Always. He lived in these narrows, sitting in his onion garden, an ice chest dog loyal by his feet. The message was clear. Work and you are of value. But not just value. Unquestioned value. Value beyond reproach. Or so it seemed as I listened to answers from questions I never asked. It was this way not just for a night or even a few sporadic nights. Decades. The man was, if nothing else, consistent. Untiringly committed to his view. Position entrenched. And I thought of a sentry, guarding some sacred ideal night and day, rain or shine.
He has been dead now half a dozen years. His words, however, have lived a bit longer. I needed help to see them as they were, as I was, (as it could be). (That there could be) A life beyond economics, beyond the (those) narrow straights to a larger body, one that could (large enough to) dissolve the salt of pain and (still) give life. She gave me this. A sense of value, of worth counted not in coin but of a different ledger. She gave me eyes. And, forgiveness. One could say, I suppose, she softened the edges of my day(s). I’d like to tell him of these things, if I could. But I can’t. He does not now, as he did not then, have the ears for such a conversation.
2 comments:
Whatever the past, whatever lessons were learned and then relearned (changed), what is heard in this is the great blessing in your present - richer one cannot be than you now are, x :-)
Beautifully written..
It is one thing to live in a box. It is another to never know you were in a box. And it is a third to see the box and then move outside of it. And, once outside of the box, one wonders why one ever stayed within those arbitrary and imaginary lines, especially when the cost was so damn high. People are funny. That's about all I can think to say. And on the days I can understand that about myself and laugh, well, those are good days. On the days I can't and I take myself too serious, well, those are not so good days. It has taken me a long time to realize that I am an out of box person. As much as I resist it, I'm just not like most other people--and in this is both great pain and great promise. It is my hope that I have moved beyond almost thirty years of pain and that I am approaching thirty years of promise. Keep your fingers and maybe your toes too crossed. :-)
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