Papa Brooks

"Tu-ra-lu- ra-lu-ra" his baritone, breathy, wafts of Bushmills whiskey. His skin, the dead leaves caught in a fall wind and mist on some random summer Monday that blanketed the rising monoliths of a slow town. Hands of knotted oak sweat dirt over faded blue jeans, grasp an old gold tone pocket watch that flecked sparks, opened and closed. The scent of those hands, sea salt and grey flannel sweet opium pipe smoke, ephemeral apparitions caught between shifting rays of sunlight. As he waltzed home, he would pick pennies off of the frozen tundra, one for each daughter. Copper wishes blown, across their half carved palms.