In my memory, these hands remain entangled; legs enlaced, knotted strands of hair. In my mind, Gordian limbs, to pull harder at my arms means to lock them ever more tightly. Bite at the weak threads, no hope of pulling apart, but leave my mark; bruised and bloodied and hopelessly pyretic.
* * *
I remove my computer, its speakers, its peripherals, from my bag, and have to lay the entire mess on the table. The wires entangled. A green, a red, a black. It only takes a moment to find myself laughing at how much I tend to assign these images; No object allowed in my view without assuming some painful metaphor. Of course I sicken myself.
* * *
I have no photos of my father, don’t know if he’s alive or dead. Spend as little time possible in his shoes, but I do ask what it’s like, projecting myself and imagining that 30 years ago I walked away from a boy and never looked back. We abandon so many loved ones to time, we who live inside our heads. Three decades to dilute reminiscence sounds reasonable. If not for sentiment, or perhaps sheer vanity, I might feel comfortable in the role. But look at how pretty I turned out. Pretty like a picture. And fast. Fast enough to outrun so many memories and an endless string of mistakes. I always wind up curious. I’d be proud of me.
* * *
Once, he and his brother fought, entangled on the carpet, my grandparents’ house. Two wiry Texas boys, quick to drink, quick to anger, and listening to the ripping of clothes caused me to step back, but goddamn if I wasn’t proud he wound up on top, beating hell into my uncle before my grandmother threw a bucket of water at them, missing completely, but surprising them enough to dip their toes into sanity. My grandfather never lifted his eyes from his paper.
* * *
I bite at those strings every time guilt sets in, remembering the safety of walking the streets with him, capable of such overwhelming anger. Still, if you’re going to be terrorized, might as well rest easy in knowing your villain can outmonster the competition.
My grandfather did not like his own sons. He had bailed them out of so many jams that they had now become lost memories. His shoes intrigue me. He ran away without leaving, Perfectly linear, and in full oblivion, and I realize now that, yes, the years can dilute reminiscence. That’s how I know he never thinks of me, willfully forgotten, in full and plain view, as he certainly found himself in the waning months of 1986.