a new family must have moved into the building while i was away. or asleep. this morning, a phlegmatic man huffed and puffed while climbing the stairs. he carried a spotless gunmetal bucket. plump yellow sponges bobbed on the sudsy water.
later, i saw the man hosing down their family van parked in front of the building. when much of the water dripped dry, the man began waxing the van's dull snout. a dark haired boy came running down the staircase. he pelted the man with questions. or he looked like he was begging him for something.
of what mind must one have to be a father? for me and maybe for most of the fatherless tribe, this is esoterica. i guess, i would never ever know if fathering, like great art, is purely accidental and perfected with no apparent effort at all. or, like the making of great art as well, can consume a life.
i imagined the man to be me. i'm waist deep into this story i'm trying to finish during the most precious of times. when parlous peace reigns in the household. when my boy is still consumed, not by his interminable questions, but by his dreams that make perfect sense to him alone.
then, the wifey tiptoes close (shh, you'll wake him up) to tell me the car needs to be cleaned today. and so i get up, leave the lives of my characters hanging, and go wax the car. is this fathering? how about when the son wakes up and comes down-his eyes still full of sleep-to see me, just watch me and doesn't ask me anything yet, make obsessive and asinine circular motions on the car skin. is this?
