Tears welled in his eyes
a confident smirk masked his disappointment
A girl—a girl
His finger slid down the curve of her soft cheek
then he stepped back
building physical distance
No clone
No son to show off at company parties and family reunions
“Do you want to hold her?”
No!
His eyes darted to his wife, his mother
relief settled his shoulders as he realized his screamed denial was in his head
“I think she has my hair,” his young wife crooned
“I think she has my eyes.”
His hand rubbed the stubble on his chin
fatigue punched his gut
Pretending sapped his energy
made him dry and brittle
Empty
A fox outwitted by the trap, he stood motionless
fought the instinct to chew off his leg
Instead, he boxed his panic
nailed down the lid
let days blend into months and years
He encouraged his daughter’s adoration
while he ignored her needs
avoided her love
silenced her angry tears by walking away
He minimized her
made her peripheral
on the edges of his consciousness
an orbiting object not worthy of his attention
A girl—a girl
Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
No comments:
Post a Comment