Mannish Eyes

Declared a “Young adult” at eighteen, though still a resident of Father’s home, I matured admirably toward twenty.

Across the water stretched the shore of my nineteenth year, Summer of sun, sand, song. Girls young to love – not as daughters, lovers, then, – as lovers then, and wine and song and moving toward, looking toward, confident, impatient,  forward toward never look back.

At forty I turned twenty-one, and they were dead, all of them, the ones I was going to impress.

Deceased. Gone.

The Old Man too.  Da.  Da.  Gone.

What sharp torsion wrenched the spine of my Time crooked; maimed the Smithy of my Soul; stopped growth and movement — once so feral and emergent — at the brink?  How deep the well of  ice-core that could so flash-freeze me at the onset of my going forth to do?

The then, then, and then: slow, painful hammering to upright (worked the crippled Smithy).  Facing grief, loss, mortality with placid, mannish eyes.

I’d like to call it “wisdom,” not defeat, but really I would rather swim — back.  To the forward of my shore.

Don't play coy. You know all about The Toe. You always have. You never protected him when The Toe-Monster attacked, late, at night. You never checked under the bed, where you knew the Toe Monster lurked, as he always had. Now you blame "the others" for losing The Toe? Spare me. Please. Read other articles by The.