PRESENT ARMS
my father likes to tell a story from his military school days: something about a dozen guns atop outstretched arms and the hot, hot sun.
this is not a proud story. it is not a story full of moxie, or spunk, or the next new chin-buck-up. because after half an hour in the hot, hot sun and his hot, hot uniform, my father swoons to the concrete all the softness they tried to muscle out of him.
my father laughs when he tells this story. it ends in slapstick, icy water and relief bucketed across his face, a gruff pat on the back.
i am trying not to be soft. i am fighting to keep my eyes open until the story ends. i am not my father, but i am tired.
our hearts are hoarse with the same honey-fire and we’re certain no one can hear the screaming under all the skin and skeleton.
how do you make them listen?
