LatinosUSA

“Isn’t it odd?” she would say, “that as

a writer your father has such

a limited vocabulary when

speaking to us, his family?”

Yes, mother. That is very odd. I

don’t know how it came

to be this way…

The boy would only think of these

words, never utter them

He could see that the

father

wanted to communicate something

and the pain of failure drove

him to

madness perhaps

Why else would he

lock himself in his room

and stand cross legged on the floor

and circle himself with

books that were educational

and family friendly, unlike his

splatter-punk style

It was perhaps

a form of meditation. He would sit

like that for hours. Not knowing that

he could be seen through a corner

of the window

He surely was battling some

ugly demons

that most likely jumped and grabbed

onto him in the years he was away

from his family

It’s been sixteen years

He’d left with poverty and

Universe-sized dreams and

returned with abject poverty and

no dreams

and found forgiveness

but not happiness

And perhaps the saddest, most

depressing part of all

was the knowing that his story

was not unique

That kills a writer

with soul stabbing wounds