Bearing Down

My father handed me an old picture, which I didn’t remember, because I was like two or something and looked barely able to stay propped on his shoulders. My expression was pretty dazed and I had my hands buried in his hair, which was shorter and curlier back then. I guess mom was holding the camera. We were in the field out behind our house and the grey Ohio sky looked like an upside-down ocean. He handed me other photos of me and mom, who was even more beautiful back then, rubbing noses as she made faces stupider than my own. It was a downer, looking at these pictures which really, because of how young we all were, could’ve been of some other family all together. It made me uncomfortable and kind of pissed that Billy Cooper, the King of Cowards, was traveling around the country with photos of me and mom and now acting like this was some great reunion scene when, actually, I found myself wanting to rip every memory of us out of his brain forever. But since that was impossible, I just sat there as he flipped through about thirty pictures and drank more beer and then flipped through the same pictures all over again. There we were, at Thanksgiving, Christmas, with grandparents I hadn’t seen in so long I might as well have never seen them at all. I looked at my father as he described each photo, pointing out this and that and laughing at the things I’d done. He was having such a good time, for a moment, I almost saw how we would’ve been if he hadn’t run out and broke mom’s heart and left me actually believing we were better off without him. Which was probably the truth. But like I said, for a second it was just me and him and her and when he looked at me for a response to a question I hadn’t heard I guess I was crying or something because he said, You okay, Ken? Yes. And then the moment was gone. Just like that.