‘Breaking It Apart’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Breaking it Apart

Hemant, tired of his lawn mower acting up every time he tried to start it, pulled the cord once more. This time, the lawn mower roared to life.

I don’t like doing this, Hemant said to himself as he pushed the mower toward the far side of the backyard. Here the property sloped down to the ditch behind the fence, making the task more physically strenuous.

Knocking Hemant off his thoughts, Neelam’s voice bellowed from inside the house. “Hem, we’re getting late. Are you going to get ready?”

Hemant, who had stopped mowing momentarily, resumed as if he had not heard her. He wondered if he would put his daughter on the deck by next spring, and let her watch him mow the lawn. Would the noise of the mower scare her? Maybe he should get a quieter one by then. Or, he should buy a big automatic mower like Sean had recommended.

One of those John Deere tractors, he told himself. It immediately reminded him of Tim “the tool-man” Taylor from Home Improvement. Recalling Tim’s obsession with bigger, more powerful equipment, Hemant tried one of Tim’s trademark ‘ho-ho-ho’ grunts.

Not quite there, he muttered, critiquing his grunt.                        

“Hemant, are you listening? I am screaming my lungs off here.” Neelam was standing on the outdoor deck now, arms akimbo.

Now that she was facing him, he could not pretend to not hear her. “I’ve been screaming my head for the past ten minutes, and you’re acting like I don’t exist,” she said, brushing the loose, wet hair off her forehead.

Hemant shut the lawn mower down. “Well, I couldn’t hear you with the lawn mower running.”

“Obviously, this lawn-mowing thingy is more important to you than keeping my doctor’s appointment!”

Hemant left the mower on the grass and began walking toward the house, while Neelam turned her back and went inside. Hemant paused to wipe his feet on the deck mat before stepping inside.

 Neelam’s eyes blazed as she stared at Hemant from the couch.  

“If you aren’t interested in attending the pregnancy and Lamas classes,” she said, “you could have told me that ...”

“I never told you I wanted to attend those classes,” said Hemant without raising his voice.

“So, are you not going to come with me?”

“I didn’t say that either.” Hemant’s voice was flat and devoid of emotion. “I’d much rather prefer to drop you off at your doctor’s.”

“So you are not going to be there at the delivery? Is that it?” Neelam walked up to the wall and banged on it with clenched fists.  “God, why do I always have to be this miserable!” She clutched her head and began to cry.

Hemant waited for his wife to calm down a bit. “I didn’t say I won’t be at the hospital,” he said, turning around to close the backyard door behind him.

“How useful will you be if you are not going to take the lessons?”

“All I said was I would like to take the classes at my convenience.”

“When? After the baby is born?”

Hemant stood silent and still like a petulant child, his hands in his sweatpant pockets.

“Hemant, classes are not available at your convenience,” Neelam continued.

“I will find one.”

“So, you expect me to attend these classes alone?” Neelam stomped her feet. “When every fucking slut who shows up there has either their boyfriend or husband tagging along?”

“So that’s what this is all about. Announcing to the world that you have someone to chaperone you around?”

Neelam screamed—her screams loud enough to be heard down the street.

Sean, Hemant, and Neelam were at King’s Island, having just finished the annual spring picnic for the employees of GE Engines, where Hemant and Sean worked. On their way home, the three stopped by one of the outdoor restaurants for a drink.

Sean watched Hemant, whom he had known since their graduate school days, help Neelam onto the low lounge chair. They made such a cute couple, he thought.

“Have you guys decided how many more kids you’d like to have?” asked Sean Mitchel after Hemant had taken his seat. A thin smile played on his lips.

“Maybe like five,” said Hemant, watching a young mom helping her toddler onto a swing behind Sean.

“What?” said Neelam, her voice excited and shrill while Sean laughed.

The toddler took a big arc on the swing, and the mom and the child broke out in delighted squeals.

Hemant smiled at Sean. “How about you, Sean?” he asked. “How many are you going to father? Like ten?”

“Ten? Me?” Sean frowned, his face turning serious. “I’m not planning on having any kids, buddy.”

“I wonder how Amy feels about that?” said Neelam, smiling. “Seriously, you should reconsider, Sean. It will be the best experience of your life.  Even Hemant used to be so blasé about becoming a dad. But now, he’s all excited.”

Glancing at Hemant, she added, “Of course, he doesn’t like to show it.”

Sean nodded. “Drawing emotion out of Hemant is like drawing blood out of a kid.”

“Tell me about it,” said Neelam while Hemant cupped his mouth as if trying to stifle a yawn.

Neelam and Hemant—who grew up in India— and Sean, who grew up in a rural town in western Pennsylvania, attended grad school together at the University of Kentucky in Lexington. Now, they lived in the same neighborhood in a Cincinnati suburb.

“When exactly are you due?” asked Sean, watching Neelam squiggle uncomfortably in her seat.

“Long way to go,” said Neelam, looking at Hemant, who was watching the trees around him glow in the sun, showing off their bright green newborn leaves.

 “Another four months. October fifteenth, to be exact.”

“Nice to see your excitement,” Sean said to Neelam before turning to Hemant, who was still lost in the park's scenery. “Whereas this guy… he always keeps his cards close to his chest.”

Neelam threw her head back and laughed. “Just like Hemant, right?” Brushing a strand of hair off her face, she added, “However, he’s more expressive at home. More so ever since we learned it’s a girl. He always wanted a girl first, you see. And I am glad I got it right.

“You know,” said Neelam, staring at her well-manicured long nails. “I didn’t want to get pregnant immediately after graduation, but Hemant was insistent.”

Hemant wore a wry smile on his face.

 “How do you put up with such an unemotional robot?” asked Sean, looking at Hemant picking up his beer from the tray.

When the waitress withdrew, Neelam said, “Boy, am I glad someone else appreciates what I put up with!”

The waitress arrived with their order of drinks and nachos, and everyone picked up their drinks.

Sean took a quick sip of his beer, and asked, “Have you guys picked a name for your daughter?”

“Of course,” said Hemant.

“I bet it is not something simple like Arianna or Brianna.”

“You’re correct. But are those simple names?” Hemant frowned.

“Absolutely.”

“Maybe simple for you, but not for our folks.”

“Well, what is it going to be?”                                                              

“Mpumelele Mbangwa,” said Hemant, without missing a beat.

“What?” Sean’s jaw dropped.                                                               

Hemant grinned. “Mpumelele Mbangwa,” he repeated.

“Mpu WHAT? Is that a name? And how exactly do you plan to spell it?”

“M-P-U-M-E-L-E-L-E and M-B-A-N-G-W-A.” Hemant patiently spelled out the Zimbabwean name.

“Are you sure you can spell your daughter’s name the same way the next time I ask?’

“Absolutely.”                                                   

“Jesus Christ. Mpum...” Sean gave up. “Mpum, whatever. Are you telling me your folks find that easy on the mouth while Ariannas and Briannas are tough?”

Laughing, Neelam sprayed the iced tea she had just gulped.

 “Without a doubt,” said Hemant.

“My tongue would be up in knots if I got the name right even once. For god’s sake, guys, she’s an American, right? Why can’t you give her a reasonable American name? At least leave her with a middle name like Maggie or Michelle.”

“Good suggestion, Sean,” said Neelam, turning to her husband and running her fingers over his forearm. “We should think about it, Hemant.”

“Sure, we’ll consider that suggestion, Sean,” said Hemant.

Neelam, who had planned to do some shopping before going home, finished her iced tea and got up

“You guys enjoy your bromance,” she said. “I have some chores to run.”

Sean watched Hemant walk Neelam to the parking lot, holding her hand. He had known them both for four years now, and knowing that Hemant and Neelam had known each other since childhood gave him a warm feeling.

Sean ordered a second Margarita.

When Hemant returned to the table, Sean said, “I like how you two are so good for each other. You have such great chemistry.”

“Thanks,” Hemant said, smiling as he flopped down on the chair he had vacated a few minutes earlier. I'm sorry about that, Sean. Neelam doesn’t know you broke up with Amy.”

 “No issues. I guessed as much,” said Sean, sipping his Margarita. “Talking of breakups, I’m terrible at breaking up,” he added

“You’re kidding, right?  You have had at least three new girlfriends in the last year, haven’t you?”

“Maybe.” Sean giggled. “Still, I am terrible at breaking up.”

Hemant chuckled, hailed the waitress, and ordered a Bud for himself.

“I’m not kidding,” Sean continued. “After I told Amy that we were breaking up, I had to face a barrage of tears and accusations from her. At the end of it, I felt so guilty and bad, do you know what I did? I went and bought a ring and decided to propose to her that weekend. Then I called her on the phone. But by the time I was done talking to her, thankfully, we were both hopping mad. She said she never wanted to see me again. I went ahead and returned the ring.”

Hemant shook his head. “Phew, that must have been a pretty close call.”

“Tell me about it. It gives me the creeps when I think about it.” Sean shook himself up and heaved a big sigh. “I came this close to being tied up with that fruitcake for the rest of my life.”

“How are things between you and Katy?” said Hemant. Katy was Sean’s current girlfriend.

“So far, so good,” said Sean.

The following weekend, Hemant stopped by Sean’s place. Hemant knew that Sean’s mother and sister were visiting him that weekend but Sean had asked Hemant to come over and help him prepare a marketing PowerPoint presentation for the coming week.

Sean opened the door and told Hemant that his mother had stepped out to run a few errands. Could they wait for her to return to start? Then, they could go to a coffee shop and work on the slides.

“Fine,” said Hemant. “But why don’t I take a cursory look at what you got while we’re waiting for your mom.”

Sean left Hemant on the living room couch with his laptop and disappeared upstairs.

 As he skimmed through the slides on Sean’s laptop, Hemant lifted his head from his laptop when he heard a little girl’s voice: “Sean, can I come and watch?” There was no one at the top of the stairs.

“No. Didn’t your mom tell you to stay in bed?”  Sean answered from his room upstairs.

“But I’m bored,” the girl protested. After a moment of silence, Hemant heard footsteps, forcing him to look up.  A girl who looked about four or five years old, wearing a pink Winnie-the-Pooh T-shirt and yellow sweatpants, was watching him from the top of the landing.

“Sam, we are working,” said Sean as he walked down the stairs to the couch and sat next to Hemant.

“I won’t bother you. I promise,” said the little girl.

“Stay right in your room where your mom left you, Sam,” said Sean. “Remember, those were her orders,” said Sean.

“You’re mean.” Sam stared at Sean, her voice choking. “You are always mean to me.”

Hemant watched the girl stare at Sean, her lips pouting and then turned his head to see Sean smiling awkwardly at her.

“What’s your name?” Hemant asked the girl who disappeared inside without answering his question, making Hemant wonder if she was accusing him of taking Sean away.

“What’s her name?” Hemant turned to Sean.

“Samantha. Sam,” Sean said, his eyes focused on the screen. He then began to read aloud the bullet items from the first page of the PowerPoint presentation. 

Reviewing the slides, Hemant occasionally glanced upstairs to see if Sam was back. She was not.

A car door slammed shut on the driveway.

“That’s Mom,” said Sean, closing his laptop. “Let me use the restroom, and I’ll be right back. We can go over to Champs and review the slides without distraction.”

Sean waited for a woman, lean and with long blond hair, seemingly in her forties, to push open the garage door with her shoulder before walking in. She held brown Marsh grocery bags in both her hands.

“Mom, Hemant. Hemant, Mom,” said Sean, getting on his feet and heading upstairs.

“Hi, Hemant.” Sean’s mother looked at Hemant after dropping the grocery bags on the floor to shut the door behind her.

“Hi,” said Hemant, walking toward the door to the garage. “Can I help?”

“I’m fine,” she said, bringing two of the bags closer to the fridge.

But Hemant still walked to the kitchen, picked up the remaining bags on the floor near the garage door, and followed her to the refrigerator.

“Did Sam bother you and Sean?” asked Sean’s mom.

“Not at all,” said Hemant before noticing that Sam had appeared in the kitchen. Her curly blond hair was all over her face, and she was clutching tightly to her red-stuffed Clifford dog. The tip of her nose was red and showed signs of rashes. He dropped the two bags at Sean’s mom's feet and looked at Sam.

“Is that your name - Hammond?” Sam asked.

“That’s right. Do you not like it?” said Hemant, brightly.

“But that’s an American name.”

“I am an American. You don’t think I am?”

“Well, maybe.” Sam hopped away to the living room. “But you look more like Shanti’s dad.”

“Shanti, who?” Hemant heard Sean’s mom giggle as he followed Sam to the living room.

“My friend at Sterling Heights,” said Sam.

“And Shanti is not an American?”

“No! She’s Indian.”

“I see. Well, what can I say?” Hemant exaggerated a shrug. “I’m Hammond, an American who happens to look like an Indian.”

“Fine.” She paused to think. “Are you busy?”

“No. Not at all.”

“Sam,” Sean’s mother interrupted immediately. “I told you to be quiet and not bother.”

“She’s not bothering me at all. I have all the time until Sean gets ready,” said Hemant.

Sean’s mother poked her head from behind the fridge and smiled at Hemant. “Thank you,” she said. “That girl just loves attention.”

“Who doesn’t?”  said Hemant as he followed Sam upstairs.

“What would you like to do?” Sam turned around on the stairs. “You have two choices. One, we can play with Clifford. Or I can draw pictures for you.”

“I prefer the picture-drawing thingy,” said Hammond.

“Sure, if that’s what you want.” Sam paused to sneeze before laying down her Clifford on the landing. “I forgot to bring my crayons, but we can use these marker pens. Do you mind if I use marker pens?”

“Not at all. Are you sick or something?” asked Hemant.

“I have Bronchitis,” Sam said after wiping her nose with the tissue she had in her pocket.

“Oh!” Hemant’s voice didn’t conceal his surprise or his concern.

“You didn’t know that?”

“No.”

“Can’t you see my nose is red?” Sam said, raising her eyebrows at Hemant.

“Sorry, sweetie, I didn’t know red-nose meant Bronchitis. So, does Rudolph have bronchitis?”

Sam allowed herself to smile. “You are funny.”

“Thank you.” Hemant sat down on the hardwood floor above the stairwell. “Do you have to take a lot of medicines?”

“Yeah. Didn’t you see all the medicines on the kitchen counter? They’re mine.” Then she pointed to the dining table downstairs. “Those are my inhaler things.”

“Do you like your medicines?”

“Eew, I hate them.” Sam scrunched her mouth. “Especially that white one. Amoxicillin. It’s yucky.”

 “Is there any medicine you like?”

“Mm...” She looked up thoughtfully. “Robitussin, maybe. Especially the cherry-flavored one.”

Sam sat and got busy drawing with an orange marker pen.

“Can you guess who it is that I’m drawing?” she asked, momentarily looking up.

Hemant furrowed his brows in deep contemplation. “Sorry. I give up,” he said.

“Hello, it’s Abe Lincoln. Can’t you see?”

Hemant decided to be indignant. “How is this Abe Lincoln?” he asked.

“Can you not see?” She pointed to the chin with her marker pen. “He has a beard. It has to be Abe Lincoln, right?”

“Is that so?  Well, I didn’t realize that was a beard. I thought those were ants crawling up a guy’s chin.”

Sam looked at Hemant sternly and then broke into a big giggle. “You really are funny.”

“You think so?”

Sam nods. “Yes, you are.”

“All right, Hemant. I’m ready,” said Sean, shoving his laptop into its bag and stepping out of the master bedroom. “Shall we go?”

“Can I complete this picture for Hammond?” Sam’s face paled before she could complete her question. “Oh, never mind,” she added.

“No, that’s all right. I’ll wait,” said Hammond before turning to Sean. “Sean, give me a minute. I want Sam to do something for me.”

Sean walked past them and down the stairs while Hemant waited for Sam to complete the picture.

Sam colored her picture frantically before handing it to Hemant. Then she waited for his reaction, putting the bottom of her marker pen in her mouth.

After running his eyes over the picture, Hemant said, “Nice. Can I take this with me?”  

“Of course,” she said taking the marker out of her mouth. “I drew it for you.”

“Thank you.” Hemant tousled Sam’s hair and descended the stairs.

On his way out, Sean’s mom followed Hemant— presumably to close the door. He showed her the picture. “Look!” he said. “Sam drew this for me. A picture of Abe Lincoln.”

Sean’s mom snickered. “I’m glad you like it. She loves drawing pictures.”

“By the way, I’m Darlene,” she said, extending her hand.

Hemant grabbed her hand and said, “I’m Hemant, but you already know that. Nice meeting you.” He opened the door to hear the sound of the car engine running in the driveway.

As Sean pulled out of the driveway, he looked like he had something on his mind.

“Sam’s a cute kid,” said Hemant. “She talks nineteen to the dozen.”

“She does, doesn’t she?” said Sean, listlessly.

“Where’s your sister, though?” said Hemant. “Did she step outside, or did your mom just bring your niece with her?”

“What?” Sean took his hands off the steering wheel and threw them in the air. “What are you talking about?”

“Sam is your niece, your sister’s daughter, right?”

“My niece indeed! Sean snickered. “I wish! Sam is my sister, dumbo!”

“What?” Hemant’s eyebrows arched up almost an inch. “Sam is your sister?”

“That’s what I said,” said Sean.

“You are not yanking my chain, are you? She’s a little too young.”

“Are you kidding? Of course, she’s fucking young. Like nineteen years younger than me. Can you believe that? I have a sister who’s young enough to be my daughter.”

At Champs, Sean and Hemant sat at a relatively quiet table, away from the crowds that had collected in the sports bar to cheer the Cleveland Cavaliers playing the Chicago Bulls. They worked on the corner table until Sean was happy with the slides. Sean closed the laptop and smiled, pulling the power cord from the wall outlet.

“That must be really neat,” said Hemant, stretching his back and glancing at the game on the TV. The Cavaliers led by six at the end of the third quarter.

“I didn’t know you have such a young sister,” he said and then scrutinized the puzzled expression on Sean’s face.

“Neat, huh?” Sean wiped his face with a napkin and snickered. “And you thought she was my niece!

“You never had a baby for a sibling after you were an adult, did you?” he asked.

“No, I didn’t.  But I think it must be wonderful to have a baby sister.”

“Yeah, right. You are confusing a sister for a daughter, dude. Sam was born when I was a freshman in college. What were my mom and dad thinking?” he said before adding, “Actually, I know what they were thinking.”

The waitress stopped by to ask if they needed anything else or if she could bring the check.

“Check, please. We’re wrapping up,” said Sean before turning to look at the parking lot behind the glass wall. Staring at his faint reflection on the glass wall, he added, “I don’t think I have ever held her when she was a baby or entertained her.”

“Hope you don’t mind me asking,” said Hemant. “I’m guessing your parents didn’t plan for Sam’s birth?”

“Oh no! She was planned all right.” Sean wiped a non-existent stain on his chin. “Planned by mom.

“You are so fucking dumb, Hemant,” he continued. “You think all couples are like you and Neelam.”

Hemant shook his head and looked away.

Sean paid the check, and he and Hemant rose to their feet. “Hemant, do you care for a game at the pool table?” he asked.

Hemant nodded.

His parents had been discussing divorce even when Sean and his older sibling were in middle school, Sean recounted while setting up the pool table. Sean’s father was in a relationship with another woman for as long as Sean could remember and he had made his intentions clear to his wife. He would wait for the children to be eighteen and then separate. Darlene had agreed to the plan.

“But mom had her own plans, I guess,” said Sean. “So, just before I left for college, she got pregnant. So Dad is back in the line, waiting another eighteen years for his latest to grow up. How do you like that?” Sean stared at the tip of his cue as he wiped it.

“Can you believe it - a woman plotting to have a baby at forty-two with a man she doesn’t care for, just to make sure she can screw him over?” Sean laughed aloud. “That, for your information, dude, is the Great American love story!”

“What happened to that other lady?” asked Hemant, aiming for the red ball.

“I’ve met her a few times,” said Sean. “Where I grew up, everybody knows everybody. She had already spent a good deal of her life waiting for Dad. She moved out of town once she realized he wouldn’t show up.”

“I don’t like the way my mom drops in on me every now and then with her baby as if this was her home,” Sean complained to Hemant when he dropped by Sean’s house a few weekends later. Sean was building a deck in his backyard, a project that consumed most of his weekends.

“You mean, drops in with your sister?” said Hemant.

Sean, shirtless and sweating, glared at Hemant from his kneeling position. “When my mom is here, she rearranges things. I don’t care about it because I don’t even notice these things. But when Katy is here, she notices and gets hopping mad.  Not that Katy and I are getting along great otherwise.” Sean raised his voice above the drone of the power drill.  “The only thing I like about Katy these days is that she hates my mom more than I do.”

Since spring, Sean’s mom had been visiting Sean frequently on weekends, bringing Sam along.  Whenever Sam was at Sean’s place, Hemant stopped by to entertain her. He walked with her on the trails around the lake in their neighborhood, helped her chase the ducks that lived on the lakeshore, and fed them breadcrumbs.

Sean told him that whenever Sam visited, she asked, “When will Hammond come by?” Hemant was delighted to hear that.

Soon, Sam had gotten comfortable enough to walk over to Hemant’s home and ring the doorbell. Meanwhile, Hemant—who went to his racquet club every evening with religious zeal—occasionally gave up his Squash time to take Samantha to the lakeside or the Park.

“Where is Sam?” Hemant asked, watching Sean hammer one more row of nails on the deck.

“Mom has taken her to the salon or something.” Sean looked up at Hemant and held his gaze.

“You know, Mom was looking for Sam the other weekend, and when she couldn’t find her, she asked me where Sam was.” Sean continued, “And I told her she had gone out with Hemant. I smiled to myself, realizing what I had just said. It sounded like, ‘My sister has gone out on a date with my friend,’ when, in fact, you’re babysitting her. Do you see how ridiculous that is?”

“I don’t see anything ridiculous,” said Hemant.

Sean grinned and got up as if he was done for the day. “You won’t ever. That’s what makes it even more ridiculous,” he said.

The next time Hemant walked over to Sean’s house to pick up Sam, Sean again told him she had gone out with her mom. His eyes avoided Hemant’s.

“Something is wrong, isn’t it?” said Hemant.

Sean tried to hold a straight face but couldn’t help a sheepish grin when Hemant kept looking straight at him. Noticing Hemant was not being distracted by his grin, he dropped it.

“Neelam called, didn’t she?” asked Hemant.

Sean’s face twisted into an uncomfortable smile. “You want to talk about it?” he asked.

“Sure,” said Hemant, not really looking forward to hearing the details.  “So what did she bitch about?”

“She wasn’t exactly bitching, Hemant,” said Sean in a placating tone.

“I guess she must have said I was never home and was spending all my time with Sam?”

“That,” said Sean, getting up with a wry smile, “more or less, was the gist of it.”

“Thank God she didn’t call to complain that I was having an affair with your sister. Not that I would put it beyond her.” Hemant covered his face with his hands.

“All right. I need a drink. Let’s go to Champs,” he added.

“Sure,” said Sean, patting Hemant’s shoulder.

“Give me five minutes. Let me go home and change,” Hemant walked to the door. “I’ll be right back.”

When Hemant was about to close the door behind him, Sean said, “Hemant, don’t talk to Neelam about this, okay?”

“I’m not that dumb, Sean. Besides, she isn’t even home now.”

It was another crowded late afternoon at Champs. The Cleveland Indians were on something of a run— a welcome success for Clevelanders after the Cavaliers’ dismal year. Hemant and Sean took a seat next to the window while outside, the trees swooshed in relief at the break from the sweltering heat. The previous night’s rain had brought down the summer temperature.

They ordered drinks, and Hemant began to talk. Hemant’s and Neelam’s fathers had been friends since their college days, said Hemant, and lived in the same neighborhood in Mumbai. Neelam’s father was a well-known businessman in the city who wanted his daughter to go to the US, finish her master's, get an MBA, return, and help him run his business.  While Neelam and Hemant had known each other since childhood and were very close, it was never a romantic relationship. “At least not from her side,” Hemant quickly added. Moreover, Neelam had been in a relationship with Zafar Abbas since her undergraduate years.

“Zafar? That dude from St. Xavier’s who used to visit you guys while we were at Lexington?” Sean put his glass on the table so hard that Hemant thought he broke it.

“Yes.”

“Good fucking lord! I thought he was more your friend than hers when I hung out with the three of you.”

“Well, I knew him through Neelam.”

Zafar was not just a Muslim but one whose extended family lived in Pakistan. Zafar’s grandfather relocated to Mumbai from Lahore, now in Pakistan, before India was partitioned.  During her visit to India last year, Neelam informed her family about her relationship with Zafar.

“Remember,” Hemant said. “Three years ago, Pakistani terrorists, supported by that country’s intelligence agency, had gunned down more than a hundred and seventy guests and security personnel and injured more than three hundred at two five-star hotels in the heart of Mumbai.”

Even without that added incentive, there was not a chance that either Neelam’s dad or her family would bless her marriage to a Muslim, and one whose extended family was Pakistani to boot. Her father told Neelam that she was no longer his daughter if she chose to continue that relationship.

She came back to Lexington seriously depressed. “Or so I thought,” Hemant said.

Months later, Neelam confided to Hemant that she had broken off with Zafar. Hemant and Neelam started a relationship. Her family, and Hemant’s too, were excited to see that they were getting together—something they probably wanted to happen all along.  But before he could get to know Neelam well as a partner, she was in a hurry to get married.

Hemant ordered a third drink, unusual for him. And that, too, this early in the day.

“When we went to India last year, even before our flight landed in Mumbai, wedding preparations were in full swing. Everyone— parents and grandparents and relatives— were like, ‘Your marriage has to happen before you fly back.’  But I was the only one protesting that that wasn’t our plan because Neelam was so totally with them. So much so that I began to suspect that she orchestrated it. As the wedding approached, I even wondered if she really broke up with Zafar because she didn’t want to lose her family, as she told me. Or did she do it because her father had threatened to cut off all her inheritance?        

“But she had stopped seeing that dude before you two became a couple, right?” Sean asked, his eyes hovering over Hemant.

“Of course,” said Hemant wearily. “Besides, he moved to California.”

Sean’s eyes strayed toward the glass door while he chewed his lips.

After the wedding, he did not want to have a child immediately, said Hemant. And Neelam told him that she would make sure that she wouldn’t get pregnant. However, her behavior after she revealed that she was pregnant made Hemant feel that she had planned this as well.

Sitting before Sean, Hemant looked like a boxer who had been knocked out in the first round as he took another sip.

Sean excused himself to go to the restroom. Standing in the urinal and glancing at the artsy graffiti on the walls, Sean felt a surge of helpless anger shoot through him. “Shit,” he hissed, looking at his reflection in the mirror as he washed his hands.

Returning to the table to take his seat next to Hemant, Sean said, “Hemant, I want to tell you something.”

“If it’s advice, hold on to it,” said Hemant. “I’m too drunk to listen.”

“I’m not advising you, shithead.” Sean gently pushed Hemant by the elbow. “What I wanted to tell you was… Sam and I get along fine these days, and I want to thank you for it.”

Hemant looked startled by the first good news he had heard in a while.

“That’s… that’s awesome,” he said. “Actually, I wanted to tell you this. I know it’s weird, but whenever I picture my daughter, somehow, it’s Sam’s face I see.”

Sean put his hands around Hemant’s shoulder and hugged him. “No, it is not weird, Hemant. That’s touching.

“It was when I saw you hang out with Sam and how eager she was for your company,” said Sean, taking the final sip from his margarita and smacking his lips. “I began to think how she must miss having an adult guy in her life. I realized then that actually she does have a dad and an older brother. Just that they both didn’t and don't want her around.”

Hemant looked at Sean, dumbfounded. The waitress stopped by to ask if they wanted anything else. Sean and Hemant shook their heads.

Sean continued, “Mom would tell me she’d draw pictures for you back home in Canonsburg. That’s when I wondered, why hold it against Sam for being my parents’ kid? In fact, she was more like my sister than my parents’ daughter.

“It still bothers me that she’s a baby,” Sean continued. “But it is not her fault. If anything, she is worse off that she has such old – and devious —assholes for parents and brother. So once I started to not obsess over ‘Jesus, what a baby to have as a sis,’ I realized I didn’t mind spending time with her.”

Hemant’s eyes glittered. “Sean, Thank you. You just said exactly everything I have been meaning to tell you but couldn’t articulate.”

“I know you like taking Sam out,” said Sean. “And she loooves hanging out with you. She thinks you’re the funniest guy in the world, though I don’t know why.” Sean grinned.

“Just don’t tell Neelam when you leave home that you are coming over to take Sam out.”

Hemant’s face scrunched up, and his mouth opened wider. “I don’t like lying. And for what?”

“Don’t get me wrong, Hemant.”  Sean watched Hemant shake his head. “Listen. Lying is useful. And, don’t think it is easy. It is a lot harder than blurting out the truth.”  

Hemant's lifeless eyes drifted to the parking lot.

“Women are like that,” said Sean. “You don’t tell them what they don’t want to hear.”

Hemant asked for the check and paid it.

Sean got up on his feet. Hemant followed, and they began walking toward the car.

In the car, as he waited for Hemant to put on his seatbelt, Sean said, “Life sucks, doesn’t it?” before easing his way out of the parking lot. “I thought you and Neelam were perfect for each other.”

Hemant stared ahead through the windshield. “That’s another of our problems. Everybody assumes that,” he said.

The next morning, getting out of bed, Sean looked through his bedroom window. He saw Hemant squatting in his backyard and fiddling with his lawn mower before sitting down on the grass next to the equipment and staring into the distant sky. Hemant’s face looked gaunt and exhausted.

Sean remembered Hemant saying, “Of course,” when he asked Hemant if Neelam had stopped seeing Zafar, and yet… Sean had seen Zafar and Neelam together in the Barnes and Noble bookshop in the nearby mall two weekends back. He had gone there to pick up a New York Times bestseller on Marketing that his corporation had recommended. It was that time of the day when Hemant would be at the racquet club for his regular dose of Squash. He had watched Zafar’s hand resting on Neelam’s belly, and he had winced.

Looking at Hemant staring into the distant sky, Sean wondered what was going through his friend’s mind. Was he wondering how he could vanish into thin air? Sean put his hands to his face and pressed them hard as if that would make him erase the picture in front of his eyes. He could visualize Hemant morphing into his dad twenty years from now. A man lost and broken, inside and out, his shoulders drooping, hanging onto nothing…

“Fuck,” said Sean stomping his foot on the floor.

“Sean, can I come in?” Sam’s voice sounded from outside his door.

“Of course, Sam.” Sean spun around, excited for Sam’s company to distract him.

Kripa Nidhi, born and raised in India, has made Houston, TX, his home for the past 20+ years. When not writing, he works as an engineer. His short stories have been published in a couple of online magazines.

‘TALES UNTOLD, SO SAYS LANCELOT’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

TALES UNTOLD, SO SAYS LANCELOT

With a retinue of eight knights lifting his body, Lord Galehaut, a Knight of the Round Table, was carried to his grave.  Ferried behind two white stallions from Tintagel Castle, King Arthur’s fortress on the sea, Lord Galehaut was brought to Joyous Gard, to be buried. And when the time comes, I shall lay next to him.  

====

You don’t need to open literature to know of me.  The fables and stories of lords and maidens, of magic and sorcerers, of King Arthur and Guinevere, of Camelot and the Knights of the Round Table.  I am Sir Lancelot. 

In truth, only the wealthy and powerful earned idolization in Sixth Century writing.  With tedium and boredom stretching the days of the royal and rich, it is understandable that love often became obsession, with little else to do when not training for war or warring.  Most women had no voice or rights.  Only beauty was prized, when not seen by protective family as a detriment, fearing expected abuse by men’s base desires.  From Cleopatra to Helen of Troy, beauty was, for the most part, the primary pedestal on which a woman was valued.   

I loved Guinevere.  She was exquisite; beauty beyond description.  Forbidden as she may have been, I often could think of nothing else.  The love for King Arthur, my chosen brother now and in Heaven, should have made it impossible for me.  And when he discovered she and I had bedded, he never spoke to me again.  I should be grateful he didn’t have me put to death.

But this isn’t the story I mean to tell.  The days of Camelot are recited with varied dramatic plots and interpretations over many centuries.  But during those years of battle sieges and knightly protection, there was a figure, believed to be the son of a giant — part God if you ask me — that came to Camelot.

=====

In the Sixth Century of our Lord, there had been no one I met that stood taller than I.  At more than 195 centimeters in height (about 6 foot 5 inches), Lord Galehaut was the first and only man from Rome’s Empire to the realm of Logres to put me in his shadow.  No woman or man, enemy or friend could deny his physical dominance. 

In battle or tournament, I dressed with a face-shield for protection and anonymity, which was not unusual.  Fighting for King Arthur and Briton against the Saxon devils, I began as one of the youngest men knighted to be at Camelot’s Round Table.  Barely 16, I’d been brought to Castle Tintagel by the woman I called my mother, Viviene, the Lady of the Lake. I was put to test by King Arthur, jousting in five tournaments against formidable knights, winning all my competitions.

(My father who was himself royalty, died when I was a young child, leaving my birth mother abandoned and destitute. Finding me wandering alone, the Lady of the Lake took me to her magic realm and raised me as her own.  I knew none of this until I was a grown man).

My battle artistry, though practiced against burlap sacks and other lifeless targets, was either inherited from birth or gifted by my upbringing beneath the enchanted lake.  On the battle field, I was known as the Black Knight.  In those first years, I never fell in tournament or war.  To hear Galehaut tell it, that is what gained his attention.

====

The earliest Camelot accounts don’t mention me.  My presence was erased for nearly 700 years.  Not for my pairing with Elaine de Corbenic, who gave birth to my bastard son, Sir Galahad.  Nor for my unbearable longing for Guinevere, breaking King Arthur’s heart.  But for indictments of an intimate nature between Lord Galehaut and myself.  During war’s despair and aloneness, no one questions Man’s shared desires.  In cases when the perfumes of a woman are not within reach, men will do what they must.  But loving another man this way?  No. It is rumored that Greek and Roman soldiers took young slave boys with them into battle to use as you might a woman.  As for allegations of love between Galehaut and myself, there is no proof.  But it is true.  I care not if that is the cause for my being deleted from early manuscripts.  I would have done anything for my Lord, Galehaut.  And with the exception of a brief period of the Round Table writings, Galehaut was rendered insignificant or banished from the stories of Camelot altogether. 

====

We met on the battle field. 

A difficult charge.  Defending the King’s realm, I didn’t have the heart to tell my Lord, King Arthur, that our army was outnumbered and out fought by Saxon invaders led by an exceptional warrior.  As the battle day was nearing its end, there was no denying the exhaustion of my remaining men.  Yet, within sling range, I saw the Saxon giant, known as Lord of Distant Isles, rein his horse to a full stop mid-field, his shield barely marked and his lance, unbroken.  His flanks fell back, as he stood alone.  In the quiet, the giant brought his mount to a canter and rode without his lance lowered for battle.  He dismounted before Arthur.  He took a knee, bowing before my King. 

Head lowered, the Lord of Distant Isles said, “I have never seen man, noble or soldier, fight with the majesty of your Black Knight.  I yield to you, my Lord.  I will not take your land and castle.  This soldier, whoever he may be, is Godlike and worthy of the day’s victory, unchallenged.”

“Stand, Sir,” said King Arthur.  “If I am not to battle or yield to your armies, send them on.  You fight with dignity and power.  Join my Knights of the Round Table and you may stand side by side with the Black Knight and the other worthy knights protecting the lands of Logres.” 

Cerdic of Wessex, enemy to King Arthur, ruled the Saxon lands.   While Lord Galehaut had fought loyally, he abandoned his allegiances and joined the Round Table, knighted with the sword, Excalibur, by King Arthur himself.  But it was not for love of Briton and the Logres realm.  Sir Galehaut did this for me. 

It was a fast and equal friendship.  He and I rode in battle together.  We often slept side by side when traveling or in camps; and when accessible, bathed together in springs.  There was no one I trusted or loved more.  Our conversations, complex and easy, never went dry.  I did not talk with women this way; not even Guinevere. 

====

I have loved two people in my life.  Queen Guinevere and Lord Galehaut.  Both had my heart and devotion. How the passion between Guinevere and I played out has been written over and over.  It killed my brother-ship with Arthur and was eventually the cause for Guinevere’s exile to a secluded convent where she would die of starvation. 

==== 

Patrolling the realm as a Knight of the Round Table and protector of the Briton lands, I was ambushed near Saxon Rock, where I alone fought 20 soldiers.  I left the 20 men bloodied or dead.  But l barely escaped.  My horse, who stayed as brave an ally as I have ever known, died from battle wounds after carrying me through the assault.  I walked until I could walk no more.  Four of my brothers found and carried me back to safety.  My wounds were numerous and painful.  Sir Gawain, a fellow Knight and a true friend, brought a surgeon to tend to me.  The doctor performed what he could, sewing my torn shoulder and other open wounds.  I would not be able to access the magic from witches at Lady Viviene’s secret realm beneath the lake. I was on mortal fields of war.

With little evidence of improvement, my men lowered me into a pool of warm spring water believed to have healing minerals, hidden by rock caves some distance from our camp.  Submerged to my chin, I ordered my men to leave me be.  I closed my eyes and lay neck deep until I drifted into either dream or fantasy.  I lost all sense of time. 

While in a dreamlike state, I heard a voice.  “You shall not die here. I will not allow it.” 

I did not open my eyes.  I felt hands caring and with purpose, run tender fingers through my blood-knotted beard, washing the clots free, as a nurse might remove mud from a child’s hair after play.  I reached my injured hand up to find his, and we threaded our fingers together.  “I will not die as long as you do not leave me.” 

“I will never leave you.” 

Sir Galehaut, Lord of Distant Isles, no longer dressed in chain mail armor, disrobed what remained of his clothing and slid into the mineral pool beside me.  We sat naked, side by side, hand in hand, beneath the warm water.  Turning me cautiously onto my side away from his face, he wrapped his giant arms around my bruised and broken body, pulling me with impossible gentleness into his chest.  Not since I was a boy cradled by the Lady of the Lake had I felt this secure.  Myself being 183 centimeters in height (about 6 foot 1), there had been no one larger than I from the time I turned 10.  Galehaut, pressed against my back, fitted to my frame, his arms enveloping me as I fell into his body.  “I am here, Lancelot.  I am your servant, my knight.  I am here.”

I have loved Arthur, my friend and King.  But this total and utter adoration was nothing I have known with another man.  I pulled away only enough to turn and face my companion.  Without pause, I pressed my lips to his and kissed him deeply, and said,  “I will not die.  Not here, not now.” 

Men are not by nature, gentle creatures.  Sex can be violent.  When with Guinevere, which at this date in time had only been once, the passion that took over was heated and frantic from our extended and secret longing.  When finally we were alone in her bed chamber, I clumsily spread her legs and with untamed desperation, thrust myself inside her over and over as she moaned, digging her fingernails so deep into my skin, blood was let.  At first I did not know if she was in pain or rapture when she arched her back and screamed as I unleashed what felt like decades of imprisoned energy.  It was violent ecstasy.

With Galehaut, this was unexplainable passion of a different breed, as our mouths opened upon each other.  I was in physical pain, but not from him.  He could break me easily in this state.  Instead, an action of uncommon trust came over me.  An experience neither of us questioned, I said, “I am yours, my Lord.”  This stimulation, arousal man to man, was unexplored desire in love.  I had seen him naked many times before but now I looked on his beauty with awe and longing.  He was a perfect specimen, whether giant or human by definition.  I had not considered that this coupling meant something different for Galehaut.  He never mounted or enslaved any women of conquered villages as spoils of war, which soldiers tend to do.  He had not a woman he longed for or was promised to for betrothal.  He was completely mine. 

There had always been ties between Galehaut and I.  On the day he knelt before Arthur and took his place with the Knights of the Round Table, he told me in private he would never be anywhere but beside me.  For myself, we had been linked by valor and battle and that was the clear bond.  But for Galehaut, he had seen the destiny of our love from the moment he saw the Black Knight defend a losing Kingdom. 

Galehaut helped me back to a bed set for me at the camp.  He would be riding back to Castle Tintagel and the Knights of the Round Table come daylight.  He slept beside me.  In the morning, when I awoke, he had gone. 

The travel home was uncomfortable and took longer than expected.  But I did recover and took my place among the other exceptional knights once more.   

==== 

There is a great deal of Medieval history that has been scribed.  Disputed or not, I will leave that to the curious to research for themselves.  As for Galehaut and I, we rode together many times over the years and just as often, were sent to separate fields to defend or conquer.  And when together alone, we had passion and love.  

====

Toward the Northern Territory, traveling alone, I was surprised by a band of robbers.  Without armor for bodily protection, I still was able to fight them off but suffered life threatening wounds.  Once they retreated, I walked toward a wide stream, removing my blood-soaked garments, thinking I would find some relief.  Before I reached the river, I fell to my knees and lost consciousness.  My bloody clothing was discovered at the water’s edge, but not I.  It was reported back to Camelot that I had drowned.  

When the news of my death reached the Knights of the Round Table, Sir Galehaut stood and walked to his sleeping chamber, bolting the door.  He refused all company, food or drink.  He would not even accept a royal visit from Guinevere, who herself was privately mourning.  After days of Galehaut refusing anyone’s service, Gawain came to his chamber.  With no response to his demand for entry, Sir Gawain brought two men and, employing a wooden ram, knocked open Galehaut’s door.  The Lord of Distant Isles lay on the floor, no breath left in his body.  Sir Gawain knelt beside him, tears running down his face. 

I had not drowned.  I’d been rescued by a hermit who found me unconscious by the water.  With a cart and mule, he towed me to his hut, hidden in the forest where he tended me back to health.  When strong enough, I traveled back to Castle Tintagel.     

As I approached, the draw bridge was lowered.  Two knights on stallions rode to meet me, which I thought unusual.  Sirs Yvain and Percival.  With what at first appeared to be great concern for my health and safety, they rode with me flanked in-between them as we crossed over the moat.  I did not ask for Guinevere nor Arthur, who even in his denial of me, I held hope would again embrace me.  Still weak, I dismounted.  My two comrades escorted me to a quarters reserved for members of the Round Table.  Agravain and Tristan joined Yvain and Percival, but not Galehaut.  Sir Gawain came in last, kneeling before me. 

“My Lord and friend.  We believed you to be dead.  We thought...” said Gawain.  

I interrupted, “I was not able to send a message.  I was rescued by a kind hermit who nursed my wounds.  But my hands were injured and he could neither read nor write.”

“The Queen will be very relieved, my Lord.  She has been beside herself in sorrow,” said Percival. 

“I will visit with her shortly.  I should like to first bathe and dress appropriately.  And I should like to see Sir Galehaut.”

Gawain began speaking: “Lord Galehaut, he is...  not here, my Lord.”

“He is dead,” said Agravain plainly.  “He is dead.”  

Absolute silence.  Then, “where is he?!” I screamed.

Sir Gawain stood, saying “My Lord, his body is —“

“Take me to him!” 

That is the last I remember of the day. 

Galehaut was lain out on a table, not meant for death.  In secrecy, Sir Gawain took me aside and told me Galehaut had died of a broken heart.  Believing I had been killed, Sir Galehaut, Lord of Distant Isles, did not want to live anymore.

The Knights of the Round Table were permitted the honor of burial on the grounds of Castle Tintagel.  But I wanted to bring Galehaut to my home.  And though King Arthur would not travel there, white horses carried Galehaut, Knight of the Round Table, to be buried at Joyous Gard. 

I did not speak of my great love to anyone.  It was simply assumed that my closest friend had died.  And that’s not incorrect. 

I would return to Guinevere’s bed a number of times before she was publicly shamed and exiled by Arthur.  I walked away from the Knights of the Round Table and returned to my home at Joyous Gard.  I would outlive King Arthur, Guinevere and of course, Galehaut. 

====

Honoring my wishes, I was buried next to Sir Galehaut, so we may lie together for eternity.  And though my love for Guinevere would be scribed and rewritten over the centuries, my love for and time with Galehaut vanished from the tales of Camelot and the Knights of the Round Table, like fallen leaves in an autumn wind. 

Andrew Sarewitz has published more than 70 short stories (website: www.andrewsarewitz.com. Substack access is @asarewitz) as well as having penned scripts for various media. Mr. Sarewitz is a recipient of the 2021 City Artists Corp Grant for Writing. His play, Alias Madame Andrèe (based on the life of WWII resistance fighter, Nancy Wake, the “White Mouse”) garnered First Prize from Stage to Screen New Playwrights in San Jose, CA; produced with a multicultural cast and crew. Member: Dramatists Guild of America.

Fragments

The Flowering

The Birthing

Fragments

Teacher

Duality Disrupted

Aleksandra Scepanovic's journey to sculpture began in socialist Yugoslavia in the 1980s. Her professional path traversed the realms of archaeology, war zones during the 1990s Balkans conflict and interior design in NYC. Celebrating the bravery of continuation, snippets from her past inspire Aleksandra's artistic spirit. Today, Aleksandra collaborates with a collective of sculptors in her studio in Woodstock, NY (@atelierwdstk_hudsonvalley). Her sculptural work underscores Aleksandra's experience of migratory displacement and an enduring quest for a true likeness of identity, suspended between war, peace, and culture.

My Dear Heaven

Photographer - Tobi Brun

My Dear Heaven

Exquisitely wild and free,

With strokes of color that are colliding and converging

Existing in this space, a space far from my reach

You are the embodiment of Heaven

The epitome of goodness

I wish to wear you

Absorbing the blue that allows air to rush into the anxious lungs

Baptizing myself in the white that dresses an angel of light

Immersing myself in the red that draws lovers near

It is intoxicating

Mirroring the person for whom I admire so dearly

Cloaking myself in the imitation of the angel’s yellow joy

Reproducing the wonderous pink that breeds fragility

And I am so entranced

By the spellbinding openness of your tender heart

By the warmth of your touch and the bridge of empathy you build

By the capacity of your forgiveness that allows for the lost to find comfort

And how I yearn for you

In the depths of the evergreen forests that yield only envious green

In the tortuous arms of the warped that leave only the shades black

In the prison of deceit, bribery, and unworthiness

I long for a time

Where the green slips from the tips of my fingers

Draining from my voice

Withdrawing from my memories

And departing from my being

My Dear Heaven,

How I desire to be you.

Jade Khounpraseuth is an emerging fiction writer and is currently an English Education student at the University of North Georgia.

‘Hardscape Permanence’, ‘Senior Night in North Country’, & ‘Father, Herculean’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Hardscape Permanence

Today you really could have just killed your boss,

could have let him feel your words of razor-fanged

truth slice at him, cut through the stitching of his thick,

unused work-jeans and scar the skin on his knee caps

so that every time he bent down for the rest of his life,

he would curse your name.

But you didn’t. You stayed hunched in the salt of the sun,

cooking like onions, secreting oils you didn’t know you had

while you listened to Carlos and his prayers of calm

as he muttered to you in a language you haven’t spoken since the tenth grade.

You thought of how the rolls of Carlos’ Spanish Rs reminded you of

the rolling hills of your youth, and how hatred for any unkind patròn

was one bubble in the grand boiling of time.

Carlos guided your calloused, tired arms

―your muscles soundlessly stuttering―

as blocks of cement tiles got laid into the dug up front lawn.

Small holy-stones to build the stairway to this suburban front door

on a home that looks like any other home in all of America.

But Carlos worked you marrowless with his faith in you―

his brown magnitude kissed with triumph

as every twenty pound stone got laid into the earth

with the respect of a fallen brother,

and how each rock was consecrated through the action of its placement,

and though you’d never believed in Him before,

you swore you felt Jesus there with you, as long as Carlos,

with the dark eyes of the universe, beckoned you onward.

“But onward to what?” You questioned as the boss cackled, unwet on the phone.

You see because of Carlos, as he placed another reliquary into the earth,

that it is permanence which you crawled towards in the heavy tongue of August,

sweating so fiercely your fingers left prints on the cement.

This stairway, in its small holy masses, through the worship of each patterned stone,

became the only thing you’ve created that could outlast you,

and though you’ve searched for decades for the perfect words to be remembered by,

it is through Carlos’s tireless hand, a soft prayer,

and a dug up front lawn in some American suburb

where you placed your eternity.

Senior Night in North Country

The cold parents wipe white powder snow from torn boots

like emperors might shed diamonds from their cloaks.

The old pair sulk into the poorly lit gymnasium,

and search for their pride and joy;

the boy they love

silently and fervently,

like suns silently warming

the young oak in the backyard.

They have put on their finest hunting shirts,

their most expensive coats;

it is their son’s senior night.

They watch him sling his wrestler’s singlet onto his chest,

a broad, muscled thing which the mother remembers

was once no bigger than her waitress notepad.

The father steps on a piece of wood

that has creaked since he wore a singlet

in the same gymnasium

thirty years prior. His eyes sparkle ruby red at the sound―

at the thought of his lone mother with a frumpy,

bent bouquet in a tired lap.

He points to a clear spot of benching and the two damply take their seats.

The empty flat circle―that wrestling mat, that empty eye―

which their son has obsessed over for years

lies vacant and open before them,

an all seeing iris peering past the old ceiling into

the ebony sky outside where only the full moon looks back.

The white haired coach coughs nervously into the microphone,

trumpeting his voice to a crowd who knows him like a second family,

and who knows this speech on love of toughness

like they know the taste of cold beers and warmth from woodfire stoves.

The coach says their family name, and the couple stands awkwardly with crowns of pride

that feel like anvils in this room of families whose names they’ve known since childhood.

Their still wet boots leave drops of crystal water on that open eye before them

as they bring a frozen set of garnet carnations to their son.

The boy releases an embarrassed smirk, and grows two microscopic inches

like a prince inheriting a title he knows he deserves.

They smile together for an awkward photo

and shuffle in royal unison to the side,

where their coronation ends and they become common folk once more.

The son holds flowers with unfamiliarity and,

not for the first time, the father cannot find the words to express―

“You were just a little acorn, once,” the mother saves him.

She cries and smiles in the way that hides

the yellow teeth she is scared to show the world,

and the father agrees solemnly and tells his son silently

through a wordless tapping of the shoulder

that in the endlessness of the universe,

in the ineffable, infallible, unknowability of

the grandeur of all things,

that this small town’s senior night so many miles from any city,

in the faceless heart of winter,

through bruising grunts and frantic wrestling,

is exactly where he was meant to be.

And the family looks at that open eye before them as it stares

infinitely upward to the gleaming, diamond of the moon.

Father, Herculean

Waiting for your father to move

feels like staring at the broken armed statue

of Hercules in The Met.

How at first glance, he is the creator,

the defender, the hero of the earth,

bound in infinity, stark naked and unafraid

of the sharp teeth of the world–the worlds,

dangling around him like the once hungry flames of

the dead cigarettes piled in the ash trays of

the scorching house.

But you wonder if that lion head wrapped around his skull

is not a crown made from a defeated beast

but a shawl of death marking the numbered days

of the strongest hero among us.

Hercules stands there armless,

limbless, tall and ancient,

yet feeble.

He postures humble, stoic strength,

like a white birch on the edge of collapse,

the rot so entangled within its core,

that its branches leap off in pining evacuation

and gather like empty beer cans in the dust of antiquity.

But maybe, you think, that old power is somewhere

in the dusty thing you look at slouched before you.

Maybe that old strength is still in those limbs that

used to move with the strength of the marble mountains

they were so long ago carved from.

But your living room isn’t The Met,

it’s too cold and smells like sweat and grease,

not poise and intellect,

and you can’t hear the many languages

of eager tourists viewing Greco-Roman works.

All you can hear is the tired sonorous snoring

of a man who isn’t formidable enough

to sit all the way up in the arm chair.

Peter Randazzo teaches history in upstate New York and runs the No Poet Peach blog on WordPress. He has a bachelor’s degree in Social Studies Education from SUNY New Paltz and a Master’s Degree in Curriculum Instruction from SUNY Empire. He has published in the anthologies of Eber & Wein, Hidden in Childhood, Penumbra, and has self-published "Dandelions & The Right Notes" on Amazon.