//a picture paints 1,000 words (or just 368)//
He used to bring his kids to this beach.
Though he would never let it on, at one time this very spot served as a weekend getaway for his family. A lazy Saturday at the beach once a quarter that was intended to chip away at the division arising between him and his loved ones. This was about all he was able to give. It’s impossible to rally much enthusiasm for familial relations after putting in a dozen hours of work each and every day. These outings were his futile skirmishes with the uncomfortable conversations and abbreviated encounters that had become the norm rather than the exception within his home.
The sacrifice one makes to sustain a lifestyle in hopes of sustaining a family is a monument to irony.
The american dream: a sixty-hour workweek, and loveless family.
His mouth now serves as a vault to the memory of these days. Those moments when his jaws clench and lips cower from the inner unrest of a mind trampled upon by fleeting happiness and surmounting remorse come regularly upon him as the faces of his children cinematically plague his thoughts. The fodder of his former life plague this man whose wife had had enough and whose children who had had too little.
Regret is best served silent he supposes, so he keeps to himself. No kind words or friendly gestures can scathe his defenses as he denies any offer of assistance. The occasional crumpled dollar bill or clanking of change on the ground at his feet mock his plight. He has all the money he needs, but no family to share it with.
At least not any more.
He subjects himself to this daily routine of scrounging for scraps or the occasional aluminum can in the trash bins dotting the perimeter of this familiar beach area. Not because he needs to, but because he ought to. Maybe it’s the penance he deserves for being the father and husband who simply couldn’t see the forest for the trees. Or maybe he’s making up for all those Saturday’s he wished he'd spent here flying kites and building sand castles rather than trying to support his family.
Is he really all that guilty?
jared.
Though he would never let it on, at one time this very spot served as a weekend getaway for his family. A lazy Saturday at the beach once a quarter that was intended to chip away at the division arising between him and his loved ones. This was about all he was able to give. It’s impossible to rally much enthusiasm for familial relations after putting in a dozen hours of work each and every day. These outings were his futile skirmishes with the uncomfortable conversations and abbreviated encounters that had become the norm rather than the exception within his home.
The sacrifice one makes to sustain a lifestyle in hopes of sustaining a family is a monument to irony.
The american dream: a sixty-hour workweek, and loveless family.
His mouth now serves as a vault to the memory of these days. Those moments when his jaws clench and lips cower from the inner unrest of a mind trampled upon by fleeting happiness and surmounting remorse come regularly upon him as the faces of his children cinematically plague his thoughts. The fodder of his former life plague this man whose wife had had enough and whose children who had had too little.
Regret is best served silent he supposes, so he keeps to himself. No kind words or friendly gestures can scathe his defenses as he denies any offer of assistance. The occasional crumpled dollar bill or clanking of change on the ground at his feet mock his plight. He has all the money he needs, but no family to share it with.
At least not any more.
He subjects himself to this daily routine of scrounging for scraps or the occasional aluminum can in the trash bins dotting the perimeter of this familiar beach area. Not because he needs to, but because he ought to. Maybe it’s the penance he deserves for being the father and husband who simply couldn’t see the forest for the trees. Or maybe he’s making up for all those Saturday’s he wished he'd spent here flying kites and building sand castles rather than trying to support his family.
Is he really all that guilty?
jared.
Labels: short stories
again my friend. that was great...
Posted by
blake stewart |
12:12 AM
Jared, I read one of your blogs from the past about openness theology. Did you ever really subscribe to it? I do, because I don't believe in the man-made theory of time that says that the future is as real as the past, only we haven't gotten there yet. I believe the future doesn't exist. Time is only a construct for measuring the distance between events or the duration of events. THEREFORE -- It takes nothing away from God to say He doesn't know what doesn't exist. By the way, I hope you get out of your funk. Nothing good will come of it. Rebuke it in Jesus name as if it were an evil spirit or something.
Love in Our Lord,
Bruce
Posted by
Anonymous |
2:18 PM