Bruised

Is there such a thing as being powerless, I believe there are things like the cry of a lost child. Or a women beaten to submission physically, mentally, or both. A young boy only seeking the approval of a father. Or the endless torment of the bullies taunting that same young boy to tears. I wrote a piece about my official retirement at the end of the year. But it bubbled into a piece about the many that have no respect for the few. Raised in the crossfire of “suck it up buttercup” and just not giving a shit. The Teflon coating I wear shows little damage. But the scars underneath look nearly as bad as my surgical bruises. 

 At this point in my life I don’t want to be the man that yells, “Get off my lawn.” Nor do I want to be the kindly old grandpa with that disgusting butterscotch candy. I believe that’s enough left of me physically and cognitively to be of some help. But still there are some bullies out there wrapped in their flags and propaganda. That believe might is right and insults are the only way to communicate. I’m sorry, but I’m just too tired of all the shit anymore. I just assume sit under the fig bush or stare out my window. 

There thinking about the cycle of time and how my children perceive the world. Was life too hard for them? Should I be so critical of how they raise their own. I feel shame of the part I played in their lives. The inadequacies and the faults I carried. I often enviously look at how my peers raised their children and wonder, why couldn’t I do that? But should I turn this moment of solace into a moment of regret? Or should I forgive myself and make penitence for the things I’ve done. Having an open dialogue with yourself isn’t always cleansing. It’s more like a purging of the faults you find in yourself.