high rising

hawk

“I watched you girls like a hawk”.

My father wasn’t lying.  You’ve heard of helicopter parents, but that’s not what he was.  There’s a sky world of difference between helicopters and hawks.  The year we drove across county and stared down Niagara Falls was the same year us girls almost choked on our raincoats.  That’s how tight Dad held onto our hoods.

At least I come by it honestly.  “It” being a swirling combination of fierceness and fear. Just today I backed myself into a corner again, perched on the wooden table downstairs, overlooking the boyhood of swords, shields, and spears.  Later that evening I watched from the hill, clinging to the hope of a new glass of wine.

You keep your thoughts to yourself, I don’t need any lectures.  I’m keenly aware of the Good Book’s old words.  You know the ones–about trusting and praying and casting out fear. I’m also aware of my own limitations, weakened by doubt and poisoned by tragedy.  It isn’t anything I can help.  It isn’t anything I can stop.

An imperfect love is all I’ll ever have to give.

 

 

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