Son of Man

Dear Caleb,

Time has sprinted ahead of me, and I have lost the race. When you were born, I vowed to one day send you into the world as an all-knowing and experienced young man. Last week, however, after your 1:00 AM text regarding your clogged shower drain, I realized that there are a good many things that I’ve failed to teach you before you leave for university and the independent life of an adult.

As a poor substitute for effort and experience, I have written a list of things that I feel you need to know but failed to impress upon you in the eighteen years I have had to do so. Please understand that had I been given more time (maybe another thirty years or so) I would have taught you all of these important life lessons and more.

But don’t take that to mean I am inviting you to stay…

On with the wisdom, and remember to read between the lines with your tongue in your cheek.

People:

Some people dip their food in puddles of ranch dressing and then eat the results. Trust me; there is nothing you can do about it. Just hold your nose while they eat, and try not to look at the creamy corners of their mouth or smell their breath. I suspect that some of these same people also wipe their boogers on the bathroom wall, fart while in line at the bank, and eat homemade yogurt in the library. In your travels through life, you’ll also meet people that kiss their pets on the mouth, people that would rather ride 50 miles on a bike than eat ice cream, and people who believe that reality TV shows are unscripted. I don’t know what to tell you, other than to say that everybody poops, so everyone has their own crap to deal with, and they deal with it in their own way. Try your best to love them all, and let God sort them out later.

Etiquette/Common Courtesy:

Don’t eat tuna fish on a date, during an interview, or at the movies. Eat it like I trained you; only on Sundays after church, when everyone else is napping.

Infection:

Germs are everywhere! Don’t just wash your hand every five minutes; wear a protective biohazard suit every day. Well, maybe not every day, because you don’t want to risk losing your immune system altogether. Avoid door knobs, TV remotes, and wearing other people’s gym clothes. A controlled encounter with germs can be good for you, however, so if you feel that you haven’t been exposed in a while, kiss a girl; they are covered in cooties. Delicious cooties.

The Most Dangerous of Creatures:

Speaking of cootie carriers, girls are roaming all over out there, so be aware and prepare yourself for exposure. You will notice that most of them are cute, lots of them are pretty, and some of them are gorgeous, but don’t be fooled; all of them are dangerous. Shower often, wear clean clothes, comb your hair, and make sure you always have mints to freshen your breath, because all of this confuses them and seems to render them uninterested and harmless. The nicer you are and the more you go to class, the less likely you are to be approached (and eventually devoured) by a girl. Be on your guard at all times; they are unpredictable, and will strike for the heart when you are least expecting it. Your mother caught me off guard, and look at me now, all infected with happiness and love. Mush, mush, kiss, kiss, ugh, ugh.

Knowledge is Power, Found in the Most Peculiar Places:

There is a lot of wisdom to be found in public bathrooms, and not all of it is written on the walls. Some of the more memorable lessons I’ve learned in the most necessary of rooms are as follows: a) Life sometimes stinks b) Still waters often run deep c) God sometimes opens a window (or at least provides paper towels) so that you don’t have to touch a doorknob. Keep an eye out in there, without actually looking around. Which reminds me of one more lesson from the John: Don’t judge. (That one I learned standing at urinals.)

Religion/Architecture:

Buildings can be scary and confusing. Having lived in a small mountain town for the past two years, you may have forgotten that some irresponsible architects design buildings that reach high into the sky, as high as four (or even five) stories! Doesn’t anyone read the Bible anymore? God did not intend for us to walk around in the sky like he does, people! Be wise; don’t enter a skyscraper without a map, a purpose, and the foil hat that I slipped into your suitcase before you left.

Expectations vs. Reality vs. Patience:

From time to time you will need to preserve food in the form of leftovers, because breeding fungi and spores in your fridge is an American privilege. When prepping this mold-destined food for containment, plastic wrap is not the way to go. The cutting edge on the plastic wrap box will never be on the side that you need it to be, and so you will have to let go of the plastic that you have pulled off the roll, in order to spin the box around and make a cut. This action causes the plastic wrap to cling to itself. This is dangerous, because a vein in your head might burst while you are trying to unstick the plastic wrap from itself. Seriously, stay away from that clear and shiny killer! The atmosphere is probably layered in cling wrap that has been thrown into the sky with frustrated damnation; maybe NASA should send up a probe and look into that as a cause for climate change. Anyway, when storing leftovers use containers with lids, they are easier on your health, and the lids make good throwing stars should those pesky kitchen ninjas attack.

Nutrition and Modern Tradition:

Fresh and non-moldy food is important, you need it to live. Remember that the more you eat, the fatter you may get, unless you eat outside wearing a muscle shirt and running in circles to create a whirlpool of sweat. Some people also say that fruit and vegetables have some nutritional value, but I’m waiting for more evidence before taking that risk on a grand scale. For now, just to be safe, do what I do and only eat nature’s flavorless trash raw and unwashed, under the light of a full moon. I can tell you that water is important, and that you can drink it anywhere and anytime without the risk of weight gain, in spite of what some girls will tell you about “water weight.”

Ego and a Healthy Interest in Others:

You will soon discover that people say many things that aren’t worth the oxygen expelled in the process. As I listen to the world around me yammer on, there are loads of more interesting thoughts piling up inside my head. Important, beneficial-to-the-universe type thoughts. I would like to just talk over everyone, but your mother tells me that would be rude (whatever!). I have mastered the art of the feigned look of interest, and you should too. As a master of facial feigning, you will never have to waste time actually listening while someone is sharing every detail of their “fascinating” dream from the night before, or vomiting up useless information about their “fabulous” week in the Poconos. No, as a master, you can look interested on the outside, while inside you are wondering how long of a drive it would take for an entire bale of hay to blow off the back of a farmer’s pickup truck, piece by piece.

Cuts, Bruises, and Broken Things:

Candy fixes everything. Carry an emergency revival-by-candy kit with you at all times, and don’t be afraid to work miracles with it. God gave us candy not only to mend wounds, cure disease, and stop bleeding, but to heal the world. If politicians, religious leaders, and dysfunctional families would sit down together around big round tables piled high with candy, war and strife would fade into distant memory, leaving peace and prosperity to coat the earth like chocolate and caramel over nougat. Dip your life in candy and be blessed among men.

In addition to all of the above, remember the following, in no particular order:

-the world is a crazy, beautiful, emotional place

-books

-not all people suck

-don’t settle

-Jared

-write

-when you don’t know where you’re going, you just go!

-aliens from the Pleiades cluster are watching over you 

-if it’s raining and you aren't outside jumping in puddles, you’d better be inside watching a movie

-all politicians lie, without exception

-don’t eat the toilet mint

-Tarzan

-you've got to be you, because no one else can

-Hannah and Solomon (you know, your siblings?)

-never underestimate the power of a fake British accent in desperate situations

-don’t forget to road trip

-some of your strongest moments will be those when you are driven to your knees

-suitcase full of pistols and money!

-girls

-don’t be liberal, don’t be conservative, don’t even sit in the middle; labels kill independent thought

-music

-you're never alone

-Mom and I love you

-you've got this

Boy Man, am I going to miss you.

Love, Dad

A Mother’s Post Script:

When you were four years old, your mother discovered that a song from Tarzan represented everything she felt about her little boy. The lyrics and upbeat music combined to encapsulate all the hopes, dreams, faith, and love that she held in her heart for you. As you well know, she still loves to watch this movie with you, and I imagine that it will be her go-to movie when she is missing you and needs a boost.

Caleb, there will be some rough moments ahead, moments that will send you sprawling. You‘ll land on your face, bruise your knees, and burn some skin as you skid across the ground. You may feel as though you can’t get up, and you may consider staying put, broken down and defeated in the dirt of life. In those moments, remember this song, and remember the little boy that you once were, riding in the back seat of his mother’s car as she sang it with you over and over again. In those moments, remember that you are now the man she knew you’d become.

And when you do, pick yourself up, look to the sky, and walk tall with pride.

Principles

I don't remember what my son did that made me lash out at him with such spite and volume, but I will never forget the moment that he flinched as though I were about to hit him. I wasn't, but you couldn't have convinced him otherwise, and so he cowered below me with fear in his eyes. The sight shocked me into silence and sent me bolting from the room.

A few minutes later I stood behind a locked bathroom door, my heart racing and my chest heaving. A panic spread within me like a dark wet stain on white linen. I looked through wild eyes at my reflection in the mirror, and for the first time saw what I had become; a man covered in a crust of bitterness, self-righteousness and pride. It was so thick and ugly upon me that my own son feared my approach.

The monster in the mirror frightened me too.

That was some time ago; let's skip ahead to present day. Last week, an authority figure wrongfully and without any investigation other than an ASSumption accused my daughter and a few of her fellow students of having stolen a computer. After yanking them from a prior obligation, he informed them that they would not be going anywhere until the issue was resolved. The kids protested their innocence, but he did not believe them. He did eventually grant them permission to embark on their own investigation, and with little effort they discovered that another adult in authority had in fact taken the computer. Having proved their innocence, they were allowed to return to their prior obligation, but were penalized for having missed the major part of it.

I could be incensed over the fact that this man doubted my daughter's integrity. I could be enraged at his complete lack of respect for her, and his display of incompetence when it came to the thoughtful, intelligent, and level-headed wielding of authority. I could brandish my pitchfork, light my torch, and march down to his office to demand his resignation.

But I'm not (okay, I'm trying not to be), and I won't (really, I won't). The benefit of doubt, the fact that I was not there, and my own experience, both as a teenager and working with teenagers, afford him the presumption of innocence that he did not offer my daughter. Mistakes are sometimes made.

That being said...

No apology was offered up to the kids by their accuser after the fact, and no restitution was made in regards to the prior engagement that they missed. That angers, confuses, and concerns me. My daughter spent the better part of that day learning things that we as a nation deem to be critical to our children's future (topic for another day), but the most important lesson she could have learned that day wasn't part of the curriculum, in spite of the oppurtunity.

As a child I was taught to say that I was sorry whenever I wronged someone. For years I listened to teachers, parents, and adults in general, as they admonished me to apologize for my bad or insensitive actions. Along the way, however, I marveled at how few of them actually practiced what they preached. Their (in)actions demonstrated a "do as I say, not as I do" approach to adult life. I decided that I couldn't wait to reach the age at which I could counsel others on what was good for them, while at the same time ignoring my own advice and doing as I pleased.

Such an age never came, not in any official-stamp sort of way, but at some point, probably in my teenage years, I just stopped apologizing. I grew up, fell in love, got married, made mistakes and refused to apologize. I had kids, loved and nurtured them, made mistakes, and refused to apologize.

Back through time, to the monster in the mirror. Ten years into fatherhood, I remained apology-free and overflowing with self-righteous pride, a tyrant in the eyes of my children. I wanted, I needed to change, but did I know how to become something else, something better, something that my kids wouldn't fear? Even if I figured it out, would it be worth what was sure to be a mighty amount of effort? Wasn't the damage done? Wouldn't my kids look back at this version of their father no matter what I did or said over the next  fifty years? My bile-laden gut told me to stand my ground; I was the patriarch of the family, and my word was infallible law.

Fortunately, my heart told me otherwise, and for good measure it dredged up the image of my son's young frame cowering in my shadow.

I knew what I had to do.

I'll never forget the look on my son's face as I sat on the end of his bed and asked his forgiveness.

"I am sorry," I said, and meant.

He looked up at me, a look of confused relief on his face as he watched me struggle to shed the heavy crust that had constrained me for as long as he could remember. I made no excuses for my behavior, laid none of the blame at his feet, and demanded no concessions of him as I finished my apology.

A but free apology.

To say that it felt good doesn't cut it.

I'd like to think that the moment meant as much to my son as it did to me, but if it didn't, and if he doesn't even remember it, that's okay. He wasn't the one that needed to learn a lesson that day.

In spite of that lesson learned, I have yet to become a perfect father. I still make mistakes, and even let slip the dogs of my temper now and again. But my kids have kind hearts that allow room for my imperfections, so long as I keep trying. And I do.

One more jump through time, to the moment that my daughter and her classmates proved their innocence. In that moment, she could have been taught that even adults make mistakes, some of them really dumb, some of them really stupid, and all of them forgivable. She could have learned that humility makes weak men strong, felt the power of a sincere apology, and known the blessings that come from forgiving others.

But her accuser didn't apologize, and so instead she learned that pride makes strong men weak, and respect eludes some men for good reason.

I'm sorry, Hannah.

The Luckiest Evolution

“I look like I work out, don’t I?” I ask Elizabeth.

“Sure, when you have clothes on,” my wife answers with more honesty than my ego was expecting.

A self-absorbed frown looks back at me from the large bathroom mirror. I pinch at my middle, flex my biceps, and wonder if my head would shrink were I to lose weight.

A recent video-gone-viral demonstrated just how much makeup and photoshopping go into many of the images that make it into ads and puff-piece articles on women. They re-colored skin, stretched legs, widened eyes, cleared away natural blemishes, and augmented curves. The end result was astonishing; the model looked unnatural, and the thought that she looked like one of the Thundercats occurred to me. I expected her to purr and lick the back of her hand before dragging it over her face.

The unfortunate title of the video was “Body Evolution.”

After viewing “Body Evolution,” I suggested to my wife that women should no longer be falling into the trap of unrealistic expectations, because they should know by now that nothing in print on screen is always as it appears to be. A razor thin line pressed into the soles of my feet as I assured her that her natural beauty and softness was just what my matured sense of desire and good taste needed.

I can’t recall the details of her response, because I wasn’t really listening; I’d heard it all before. “Women and girls have unrealistic expectations of beauty and fitness forced upon them at every turn, blah, blah, blah…”

Insert that self-absorbed frown here…

In addition to already having heard the blah, blah, blah, my mind was too busy traveling back in time to pay her any attention.

Stripped to my underwear, I sat atop my doctor’s vinyl torture table with my legs dangling over the side, like a toddler on a park bench. My hands were tucked awkwardly beneath my knees, and I stared down at my socks, wondering if I should have removed them. The door swung open without a warning knock, and I startled in surprise. I barely had time to sit up straight, suck in my gut, and puff up my chest to flatten out my budding moobs before the doctor crowded into the tiny room. He swung the door shut without a hello and reached for the clipboard that held what I imagined to be his male-nearing-forty checklist. He stood and read in absolute silence for several moments before acknowledging my presence with a look over his glasses.

 “Ah yes, I see. You are a mesomorph,” he noted, and then dropped onto a wheeled stool and rolled up to invade the personal space between my bare knees.

“A what?” I asked with innocent ignorance.

“A mesomorph,” he replied, his tone supporting the ignorance in my voice, but not the innocence.

“Which means..?”

“Which means you could be either fat or thin,” he bothered to answer as he began to poke at my flesh and tick boxes on his checklist.

The thought occurred to me that the paper liner to which the moist backs of my knees were stuck cared more for my well-being than he did. As a form of protest I remained silent for the remainder of the examination, except to answer his terse questions with terse answers.

Hey Doc, does my mesomorphic ass make these 34-inch waist jeans look big?

Not long after that visit, I committed to completing a round of P90x, an intense workout and eating regimen that I am convinced was required training for Spartans. For the first week I could not touch my own face because the muscles in my arms would not allow it, and over the course of those 90 days I was at times reduced to tears by wishes for the hollow carbs of a piece of white and wonderful bread, and to mindless sobbing at the sensual fantasy of devouring a candy bar. The brutal workouts, sleepless muscle-pain nights, and absence of sugars were sure to pay off however, and by day 90 I would shake the earth as I walked, making it impossible for people to notice my physique.

A couple of months into the program, someone did at last notice.

“Um, Matt, are you okay? I just thought I’d ask, because you have been looking gaunt lately. You aren’t, you know, sick, are you?” a client asked, his hand on my arm and his voice hissing the question into a whisper, the way people do when talking about cancer.

I assured him that I was fine, thanked him for noticing my weight loss, and informed him that I was working out every day and eating right for the first time in my life. I left his office divided in my thoughts; while I was delighted to know that the changes were visible, I was less than thrilled to discover that I appeared to others as though I were descending into death. The pounds I had shed were barely into the double-digits, and people were starting whisper, but not in the way I had hoped they would.

The 90 day regimen ended and I looked down at my abs in search of the promised six pack. My stomach was flatter, my body leaner, and my budding moobs had returned to being little more than nipples, but I felt like I had the first time I unwrapped a McDonald’s cheeseburger; my body didn’t look like those in the commercial. I had spent 90 days living at the very edge of my breaking point, purging my body of the everyday toxins of a wasteful life, asking the unimaginable of muscles that I wasn’t previously aware I had, and consuming an ark-floating amount of water. Committed to sacrifice and hard labor in exchange for results, I had pushed through the most difficult physical challenge that I had ever faced (excepting my vasectomy, of course). My body had shed more weight (18 pounds) in that short period of time than it had picked up in the ten years leading up to it.

I was as ripped as I had ever been, but without the movie star six pack I still felt a little bit like a failure.

Just last week, almost five years after my failure to achieve six pack status, I ate an orange. Peeling it was an exercise in patience and good faith. The thick rind resisted my efforts to separate it from the (hopefully) juicy bits (they weren’t). The orange is to me a dichotomy, and eating one makes me feel ridiculous and wasteful, because the rind is the most nutritious part, and yet we cast it aside.

The serial killer in “The Silence of the Lambs” knows what I am talking about; I bet he carefully peeled his oranges and threw away the inside, knowing the greater value of the skin.

After flossing the sinews of that dry and bitter orange out of my teeth, I ate a candy bar. The wrapper peeled away with no effort at all, and I beheld the beautiful chocolate temptress in all of her naked glory resting in the palm of my hand. No need for photoshopping here. After a brief and sensual look, she melted in my mouth, leaving my emotions at odds; I was satisfied, yet still wanted more.

That night my children laughed and Elizabeth shook her head as I stood in our kitchen and ranted about the ease with which I could devour anything that was sure to eventually kill me, and my frustration at the work involved when it comes to consuming food that was sure to prolong my time on Earth.

I pointed at our new (and expensive) juicer. “Sure, it only takes two minutes to make juice, but you spend the rest of the day cleaning the damn thing,” I whined.

It didn’t help that I had read an online article written by an “expert” that vilified just about anything I am inclined to put in my mouth, and even went so far as to include some things that I’m not, namely salad, yogurt, and granola. Why are we as a race so obsessed with proving ourselves wrong in everything we do? From food consumption to carbon footprints to belief systems, we revel in discovering our own futility.

I will most likely die from a heart attack induced by the labor-intensive peeling of a piece of fruit.

Ryan Gosling plays the lead in one of my favorite movies. His character lives a simple life guided by a strict set of rules that not only protect him, but also preserve him. He says very little throughout the film, but his silence carries the weight of a tragic back-story that we aren’t ever told but think we have pieced together, and because of that we can forgive, envy, and eventually join in his detachment. He exudes cool with every movement, from the simple act of hoisting of a bag filled with groceries to that of donning his white satin jacket complete with golden scorpion embroidered on the back. His character is something I want to be but never will, and so after watching him drive away into the night, I turn off the television and return to my normal, average, wonder-what-the-next-day-holds (besides cleaning out the damn juicer) life.

In a high definition world where Ryan Gosling’s marble-cut chest exudes passion, Bradley Cooper’s piercing blue eyes beckon, and Brad Pitt’s king-of-the-jungle hair whispers invitations to fantasy on the wind, why do we assume that only women and girls suffer from body image issues?

In another life I should have been a comedian, but not because I believe myself to be a funny man, capable of standing in front of large crowds that are going to be angry if I don’t make them laugh. Comedians are rarely the epitome of perfect fitness and clear complexion, blessed with brooding eyes and keen fashion sense. Most comedians are ugly, pasty-skinned, balding introverts that take self-loathing and bad habits to Olympic levels. They incorporate their flaws, fat, and general apathy about being average into a running monologue that sparks both laughter and an internal stocktaking of life in their audience. They allow us a safe place to laugh at ourselves while nodding our heads in understanding agreement. I should have been a comedian because their self-abusing narcissistic existence is a goal within my reach. In fact, (like most of us) I am already there.

43-year-old white male standing at 6 feet and weighing 195 pounds (after a shower to wash away excess dirt, dead skin cells, and too much hair gel) seeks affirmation as an attractive member of the human race.

I can’t even grow a real beard, but I like my balls cancer-free, and so for No-Shave November I went without a haircut. This has not been easy for me, because I like to keep my thick and unruly hair high and tight. Haircuts have been like cheap therapy after a childhood of at-home haircuts from my father that often left me looking like the fifth Beatle (the bowl-style mop-top Beatles). I hated those haircuts, and it took leaving the country to live in a third-world corner of the world at the age of nineteen to get my hair cut professionally for the first time.

I have tried to grow my hair long before, but my patience wears thin as it starts to tickle my ears and cause the back of my neck to itch. In addition to the discomfort, when left to its own devices without gel, it looks like a wig made from roadkill. It is a true blessing, I know, the fact that I have retained so much hair when so many men my age are balding, but what good is an overabundance of hair when it won’t flutter in the wind and make women shiver as it sweeps across my soulful eyes?

The other night Elizabeth and I saw a movie that ended with an advice-dispensing voice over from the main character. He admonished us to live every day as if we had made the choice to live it a second time in order to enjoy the little things, people, and moments that made it unique, happy, and special. His advice was accompanied by a familiar song about being the luckiest, and a montage of blissful family moments.

As I listened to this man and watched his happy moments fade to black on the big screen, I began to believe that it was possible; I could live every day with my eyes open to the things that made it worth living again. My relationship with my kids could be a never ending exchange of thoughts, advice, experience, and love, and my time with Elizabeth could forever be fresh and new, with spontaneous outbursts of laughter, dancing, passion, and joy.

The following night I climbed out of bed at 11:30 in order to go and retrieve our daughter from another one of her many social activities. Elizabeth looked across the room at me as I donned my jeans.

“Kid, get a haircut; it doesn’t look cool,” she said to me in her direct but loving way.

“This from a woman whose bed head makes her look like the love child of Gene Wilder and Phyllis Diller,” should have been my witty comeback, but I was too busy nursing my bruised ego.

Oh well, tomorrow’s the same day.

Soldiers In The Water

I’d swim through shit for my kids, just like Joe.

My eyes are cloudy again. I don’t cry as much as I used to, especially in public. I miss it sometimes, the naked rush of desperate grief that sent me so many times to my knees in the cereal aisle at the store, in between the stacks at the library, in the darkness of a movie theater, even in church. Grief and I have at long last come to terms; she is allowed to take control in quiet moments when we are alone in my closet, my car, or the shower, while I maintain my composure (for the most part) in public places.

I sit in the rec center hot tub and watch my youngest march off the high dive. He mimes a moment of confusion as his long walk down the short blue pier comes to a sudden end. He windmills his arms and legs in imitation of a cartoon character before making a splash. I smile and raise a thumbs up salute as he climbs out of the pool and looks my way for validation.

He walks on the verge of running on his was over to the ladder. The lifeguard ignores him in favor of monitoring the three chubby teenagers wrestling in the shallow end.

I sit in the hot water and try not to think about Jadin, Joe, and Jared.

A few jumps off the high dive later Solomon makes his way over to the tub.

“Dad, come play with me in the river,” he pleads.

I look across to the shallow play pool. It isn’t crowded, but that doesn’t mean that someone’s three-year-old hasn’t pooped in it. I don’t want to play; I want to sit and stew in the hot salt water, allowing the emotion to melt out of my pores rather than my eyes.

“Dad, come on, you promised,” my son reminds me.

I put on a smile and climb out of the tub. Hot water drips from my body, and I shudder in the sudden cold. Solomon jumps into the playpool and swims for the river. For him the water is clear, clean, and warm, but all I can picture is dark sludge, diapers, and band-aids.

Jadin, Joe, and Jared.

My feet are at the edge now. Solomon looks back, expecting me to be there, right behind him. He wants to play soldiers-in-the-water, a game where we take turns dragging each other against the current, like a soldier pulling his wounded comrade through gunfire.

“Dad..,” he says, his tone full of playful warning.

I suck it up and slip into the sludge head-first in a low-profile dive. I spin onto my back and kick my way underwater, towards my son.

An arm wraps around my chest as I break the surface. “I’ve gotcha, man, just stay with me!” Solomon gasps, the effort of pulling my large frame against the current already punishing his lungs.

I lay on my back, with my legs and arms stretched out to drag through the water. The ceiling high above passes by slowly.

“You’re gonna be okay,” my son assures me.

 I close my eyes to picture Joe and his son Jadin, and their bittersweet reunion.

Joe Bell was hit and killed by a truck last week, while walking across the U.S. in memory of his son Jadin, who killed himself earlier this year after being bullied for being gay. (My little brother Jared died by his own hand in 2009.) I never met Joe, but I plan to someday, and until then I hope to follow his example of unconditional love.

Blueberry Eyes

“I’ve done some bad things to get here,” I admit through cracked and bleeding sunburnt lips.

The man I have chased across the desert lies captive and silent at my feet, his hands tied behind him with rope, his naked ankles cinched together with rawhide strips. 

I take a sip of water from my canteen and refuse to wince as the hot metal burns the sores that have plagued my mouth for days. I distract myself with memories of her and the pain subsides, but in deference to hatred rather than love. My boot swings back, then finds its way forward in an instant, connecting with the man’s stomach. He folds in on himself and coughs blood onto the ground.

“Several months back I was a decent man. I spent weekdays behind a clerk’s desk, Saturdays with my family, and Sundays in the presence of the Almighty. A good and kindly married fellow, I was happy to be a father, content to be simple, and determined to be God-fearing. I had never so much as yelled at another man, let alone shooting one in the gut and watching him die, like I did to your brother. I shunned confrontation, hid from violence, and tempered my emotions. Modeling myself after meekness, I hoped to one day inherit the earth.” My throat dry with confession, these last words sound gritty and desperate.

I take another sip of water from my dwindling supply.

My prisoner, the father of who I have become, looks up, his eyes squinting in pain and sunlight. I move to cast some shade across his face, then ignore his pain while searching his eyes for terror. There is none. Not yet.

“But then you came and murdered the meekness, strangled the temperance, and filled my path with confrontation and vengeance,” I explain, before spitting blood and bits of burnt lip onto his cheek.

He shudders as the gob of blood, spit, and skin trails down across the bridge of his broken nose. I chuckle with dark pleasure and walk over to my horse. She is a beautiful grey that until last week carried someone else, someone now dead and unburied. I pull a small leather pouch from my saddlebag.

Returning to his side, I squat low beside him. The knife stuck in my belt fills his view, and his breath escapes in sudden bursts of panic as he struggles to turn his face away from my reach. Small clouds of dust rise with each desperate gasp. The red drool of the broken and beaten drips from his lips. I watch, a tickle of satisfaction running up my spine. Terror is rising within him, I can feel it like a warm breeze on my face.

“Ever been a father?” I ask quietly.

He stops struggling and drops his head into the dirt. Comprehension has paralyzed him.

"I'll take that for a yes." I shift my weight, and my heels dig deeper into the dust. I fumble with the leather pouch, and the soft cloth figure falls out into my hand.

She is a simple affair, hand-made from love and left over cotton scraps, her face painted on with patience and blueberry juice. Her red and white checked-gingham dress remains clean and bright, but its time inside the protective leather pouch has pressed it into wrinkles. Looking down at my daughter's doll, my eyes fill with tears.

"I don’t expect I'll ever inherit the earth; I've resigned myself to eternal hellfire with the dark sins I have committed since the day you rode into my life," I hear myself saying.

The man on the ground begins to sob. His body trembles in the dust. "Please Mister, don't kill me," he cries.

The sound of his despair is beautiful to me. Her doll rests still and soft, cradled in my left hand. I slide my right hand down to my gun.

His sobs grow louder and more wretched. I look at him; he has turned his head to face me. His eyes fill with sweet terror as they dart from mine, to my gun hand, and finally, to her doll.

Thunder rolls. I look up at the clear indigo sky. No clouds. And then I feel it, the gun in my hand, my finger on the trigger, the barrel clear of the holster.

Her doll stares up at me with those blueberry eyes.

-The End.

----This short was inspired by the terribly painful sores now coating my sunburnt lips, my boyhood love of "The Sacketts" paperback book series (written by Louie L'Amour and gifted to me by my mother), and the fact that my daughter is away this week and I miss her.