BROKEN REDEMPTION
By Erin Woodward
The last time I saw my father, he spoke curtly, “ Your writing is fair, but it needs work. ” My heart for my father was cold. My affection empty, brittle at best. Sometime later he died. His death cost me twelve dollars. I read an article about his passing in Esquire. The story was a cheap fluff piece. No mention of his quarterly visits to see me and mom. No mention of the endless affairs. No mention of the countless bruises. No mention of the two dollar bills he would give to me. The penance for his growing son. I liked to dream he died at his writing table. A empty bottle of bourbon mocking him: his fingers paused mid-sentence: the typewriter left waiting. Cruel, yes, but it is the wish of a young man’s calloused heart. I found the magazine perfect for kindling.
He coveted mom, at least the physical aspects of her. She would send me off to the marsh with a thermos of Campbell’s soup and soda crackers. “ Come home after dark, we all can play Monopoly later on.” Her words an empty promise. We never played. I found solace in the marsh. I would spy the Mallards counting them one by one. My hands mimicking the swing of a shotgun. I would envision a chocolate lab rushing to retrieve ducks. Dreams of child are simple. They are beautiful. Mom could barely afford canned soup. The dream of lab remained a simple childhood hope. If I came home ‘too late’ I was gifted with the sting of his leather belt. The practice became routine. In my mind I would count the ducks all over again. Never would I gift my father a single tear.
***
A letter arrived in a time of year when slate skies loom. When the darkness pushes back the sun, and man finds the comfort of a good woman all the more satisfying. I knew who the letter was from. I simply wished not to read it. Ignoring the contents of false hope I set the tea pot to warm up. Snow dotted depressed grass. Outside our window the word transformed into a snow globe. We warmed ourselves by the fire. Shadows danced. Wings of Bluebills move along brick and mortar. Abby, our chocolate lab at our feet. We were happy.
The weight of the letter loomed. Evening having long since given way to night. A soft voice whispered, “You should read the note.” A wife of simple word. She was right. As any good and honest women can be. She loved me well. I smiled. Stuffing the letter into my pocket, I toss on my worn mackinaw. Crisp air chills my bones. I sip my tea, but it is gone. Even now a simple joy of life abandons me. From the ink of night, only the moon dances above. Refractions of the Pleiades flirt between cattails. Water welcomes a single duck. I exchange the cup for the letter.
I’m not sure how long I stood on the porch. Long enough to feel the sting of snow. Long enough to not care. My eyes scan what few words are written. I fold the letter into my pocket, close the door, and shut off the lights. Tomorrow I will find comfort in the marsh. I look back to the water, the lone duck now gone.
***
“Mitchell-
Prior to the passing of your father, we received a final manuscript. To our surprise it was not the work of your father’s but a collection of your poetry. Paper- clipped to the top was this note:
“Maggie- Contained within is the work of my son Mitchell. His words are ready.”
-Warmest Regards.
Mitchell Owen Sr.
***
The weight of the season clings to my beard. A tapestry of ice and snow embedded within my whiskers. Boots sink into mud and leaf. The forlorn of oak amongst the leaves, brittle and pathetic. One mourns the loss of seasonal perfection, trees yield to coming winter, bark left in perfect nakedness. The Ithaca ready, steel teases bare palms. I welcome the sting. It’s a quiet comfort. Here I escape.
