Prodigal

August 21, 2012

“Return of the prodigal son,” my father says, in that resolutely opaque humourous display of his.

I swallow the retort in my throat, and reply with a terse, “Hi Dad.”

He slaps me on the shoulder and I cringe inwardly, but stiffen and expand outwardly, keeping my face carefully and obviously blank, trying to ignore the friendly gesture that I transform emotionally into a perverted display of force and dominion and willingness to forget the unspoken past.

I take off my shoes and enter, secretly eager to leave this calcified ritual behind.

I never forget and I never will.

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