Father smelled of gunpowder and stuttered when he spoke. He aroused himself by the sheer act of of waiting. He was a mule with bad intentions.
Mother saw shadows. Everything turned grey in her eyes and morning was her evil cousin. Sunshine feared her gaze. It cowered like a beaten puppy.
Sister picked daisies, even when there were no daisies. Sister saw fifteen reds in the color blue. She mumbled silly words when she knew we were looking.
I named the brown horse "Brownie". And the white horse "Whitey". I cared only for wet grass and peppermint candy. I had problems with my eyes. I squinted out of habit, it's what I had always done. Narrowed my eyes in concentration. But concentration on what? I was never sure. Thoughts floated in and out, the periphery was a broken horseshoe. Wild horses never roamed in my subconscious. Pastures bled for water, desires were droughted by an aching eye-caused pain. And I was remorseful that my eyes were so untrustworthy.
1 comment:
I, much like your father, fancy myself a mule with bad intentions. However, I smell of an intoxicating blend of baked beans and missed opportunity.
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