A Work in Progress


A Work in Progress

Every boy eventually crosses a bridge to challenge their Father.

With nothing but a backpack full of necessities
And an out of tune Mexican guitar slung across his back,
He left home for the first time,
A spring's teen, and “Born to Run.”
The guitar’s broken E-string bounced to the crescendo of an adolescent anger.
Feet pounding pavement,
He ran, refusing to look back.
His thoughts trembled.

As he passed the park where too many summers were spent underage drinking, smoking pot, and getting girls to make out on top of a makeshift causeway, poetically dubbed “The Bridge,”
He knew.
Someday he would write a song that would denounce his father.
His song would dethrone.
No longer would he let him sit upon high, the maker, the provider, the law.
Now humbled and low, he would bear witness.
The all-knowing keeper of teenage angst, accusation, and aggression would devour,
And he too would tremble.

They didn’t speak for over a year.
Even in those few short months, when the son returned home, barely a word was spoken.
Both relentless in their refusal to turn and lead the other.
Their anger fed their inability to blindly follow.
Both unable to see that either outcome was better than a staring contest.
Sixteen years later that song is still unwritten, and all the son can see now is that bridge.
Isolated.
Re-made by generation upon generation of father and son haphazard and weak,
Forever narrowing and unable to carry two abreast.
The son sees a man and son infinitely at odds in the middle.
Each one’s stubbornness being mirrored in the eyes of the other.
Neither one being the original architect, they are forced to stand their ground.
Subjects to a flawed design.

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