“Open your eyes, boy!”
He said it with two syllables, stretching it out till it sounded like…
“Buoy! You heard me! I can smell your waking laziness. Open Your Eyes!”
Only in the mornings. Only when talking to me.
Why couldn’t he just be…I don’t know, less demanding? It’s like it doesn’t matter how late I’ve been out in the field, or what crisis I’ve just had to fix-before-it broke. It’s a single word in this house.
Doesn’t matter.
The point is, he’s there, 4:00 AM on the dot. Standing at the very edge of my consciousness, right beyond the darkness. I asked him one evening how early he woke up and he told me…
“A man wakes up early enough to handle the chores that his choices in life have put before him!”
He says the same thing, Every…Morning.
I open my eyes, and he’s gone.
“I miss you dad.” He died twelve years ago, but every morning he still gets me out of bed.
“Damn, I miss you.”
A very short story I wrote about a man (Collin), still dealing with the loss his father after several years. Meant to be a an imagination starter. Giving the creative mind a platform from which to question, empathize and create stories to entertain and teach.
