His father is a statue taking in food, calling out mistakes. Wrenching the tractor, watching television, without blinking.
“What did you ask?”
“I’m sorry?”
“About the boat.”
He is disgusted. A nap with Gracie, Water from the faucet, a few things from the other side of the garage door. “It’s just unusual that we’d have brussel sprouts”. He doesn’t care, but he has much to say about it. A lit candel and a few words about him, not with him.
2 Comments
i don’t understand, but i know there is grace. peace to the people who lie awake late and pray for deliverance. this takes courage.
brutal.