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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required My fists have been clinched since birth. Mom said I came out, hands raised. Ready to fight. But I’m walking this ol’ gravel road tonight- hands stuffed in my pockets and my grip is loosening. Hope stumbling its way out of these war-torn boot cut jeans. Dad would have expected me to hang on better. He was teaching me to dig in my heels. To grab the reigns, and break the horse. Bust the bolt. Untangle that line. But, I wasn’t ready when he left. I had so much more to learn. Mom used to tell me that I’d end up just like him when I got into trouble. Drunk. Alone. Dead, in a ditch. I had to get away today. Mourn in silence. She hated the man. He would be 55 today. And everybody tells me on days like this... I’m a spittin’ image. I look at our pictures and see a hero. A boy that didn’t know he’d lose his ability to hold on. And a picture’s lie, of a still framed- frozen smile. Smiles fade, even if the picture doesn’t. Memories shake loose from my hands. Denim crashes on the road. And I can hear the El’ Camino rushing past as he hollers. Trying to encourage me. “Dust off them pants, and jump back on, boy!” For a moment, I feel strong again. And then the wind fades. I lay my hands flat against the Earth. Desperate for another moment. But, it was just a flash. He was gone. Just as quickly as he came. I clutch a handful of stolen moments. Cast them toward the stars. Angry. Afraid. With my fists raised, once more. “I love you, Dad.” -James Kelley 2019
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