The Weight of a Father
It was fairly simple.
All they had to do was follow the mindless path of destruction
through torn-up front yards and past broken streets signs
to arrive at our front door. Dad was still passed out at the end
of the hall and now the neighbors had formed a vigilante mob,
banging on the front door, clamoring for the blood of my father.
I opened the door and listened to their righteous indignation
but didn’t really hear much of what they said. All I knew is that
they wanted to exact some form of social justice on my old man.
I told them to get off my property (a common saying for kids
at that time) or I would start executing them one by one (a less
common saying for kids at that time.) They left quietly, stunned
by the prospect of an even greater threat than a drunken fool
careening through the neighborhood in a gold Chrysler New
Yorker. The cops knocked on the door an hour later but I didn’t
answer. By the time they actually talked to him the next day,
he was sobered up and could honestly say he had no idea what
they were talking about. That night wasn’t the last night I picked-
up my dad and put him to bed, but it was one of the last. Have you
ever noticed how the weight of a father fluctuates constantly,
that it can vary greatly from one moment to the next?
Richard King Perkins II is a state-sponsored advocate for residents in long-term care facilities. He lives in Crystal Lake, IL, USA with his wife, Vickie and daughter, Sage. He is a ten-time nominee for the Pushcart, Best of the Net and Best of the Web awards. His work has appeared in more than fifteen hundred publications.