A Mother's Son
My mouth sticks as the moist jello cake is pushed down my throat. My eyes follow the patriotic
bursts and blooms that dot the night sky. Cannon shots and explosions become sound of common place as blank faced adults watch men
dance wildly around the raging inferno which sat nestled in our backyard.
Somewhere between the brim of my dreams
and the margins of reality
I see my father dancing like an ancient tribesman, full of all the savageness and tradition of his fathers and grandfathers. Shrieking with Indian war cry - one hand in the fire and the other holding a small explosive like white man head - scalped fresh in battle.
I almost giggle at the wildness of my father and run to join him, but a mother’s disgust scooped me up and carried me off with scowls of contempt toward the barbaric scene my father had made. And with lonesome
gaze I stare back with longing that stretched into the recesses of my guilt and confusion which I hold today. I still wish
only to accompany him.