For the first time I notice a few gray hairs in the stubble on my father's chin, they shine like the blades of grass and powdered yellow calla lilies in leathery white sheaths reflected in the lenses of his glasses.
Bespectacled and warm from the sweating beer in his fist, he looks tired as he stands slouched near the stone fire pit.
He still smells like coffee in the mornings when the sleep is not yet rubbed from his eyes, the way he hugs me is wholly and undistractedly comforting, like the robin's song echoing throughout the calm forests in summer, columns of light beaming to the ground from the gaps in the canopy overhead, the song drifts lazily over our heads, through the sawdust from his woodshop— it clings in a taupe powder to his broad shoulders, I dust it away, the two of us giddy, and I suddenly feel the urge to tell him I am sorry, but I do not know what for.
Comments (2)
that was lovely. nice choice of words.
@elelkewljay - Thank you :]