Within the Wilted Tree Line

 

The light shone through the 

three picture windows of the 

living room. He sat in the dated

orange chair watching one of

his favourite cartoons, Robin Hood.

"This is a good show," he said, 

rewinding it to his favourite part.

His pants were hiked up over a belly 

formed by years of 7 am bacon

and hidden-in-the-garage whiskey.

His dentures made his demons shine 

and so did his eyes, vailed in thick-rimmed

spectacles.

His family played in a world of pretend

until a nephew spat out a secret that

knocked down the drapes.

But his children will always love him.

Stiffly up his chair and towards the brown

and brick mantle, he stokes the

fireplace with a log. Then he hobbles up 

the stairs with a mole on his ass,

free and easy so it appears.

Yet, the baggage can be heavy, in the pit 

of your stomach like a gummed steak.

The sparse trees are dying because he 

doesn't water them when he should. Wind blasts

like bullets from the north. The yellow

tundra surrounding the banks of the homestead

are no defense. But the smell of 

fresh buns in the summer kitchen made by a

prayerful, faithful wife is calvary.

A survivor of polio, a first-generation 

German daughter of a marriage of 

convenience, she married for love and 

holds on for faith.

He has had a circus in his head. It's 

undiagnosed schizophrenia. He's the head

of the table and the king of 

accusations. They are darts poking holes in 

the walls to prevent the 

warranted backlash of truth.