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Children of the Sun

 © Thomas F. Guy II A little boy of 19 months runs across the room giggling with happiness as he tosses about a yellow rubber duck. He finds the whole image so eventful, that the outside world would never understand why he laughed. A father sits in a bed, trying to gather much of his word together in order to give peace to others when the time comes. Stopping ever so often, he looks back angry at the machine that continues to beep. What dredful background music this machine is. He could tell the difference between the penning of happy thoughts and things that should have been forgotten. Speed up, slow down; just like the playing child outside his room. For every passing minute a sentence or two lay drawn to the paper, tapping of the pen helps complete a full hour. Today is Father's day. Today is sunny, and no rain has graced the grass for a whole week. Silly weather we have at times. The little boy wore himself out and has layed down on the cold, tile floor to sleep. A nurse is ushered to move him to some place more fitting for sleep. In the days past I would have been able to pick my son up. Thinking to himself; "How we grow old slow, but yesterday we fought to be so much older. Ah, I can see the lake water and taste my mother's deviled eggs. Dad always did love them. My mom, yes I almost forgot something." The pen returns to the paper like a chain smoker, before long two hours go by. More tapping of the pen. Before long supper is entering the door and a pair of beautiful blue eyes appear. "How even in the moments of mortal death, or while sitting on your death bed they might say. We still find an attractive sense in our nature." Continues talking to self. More thoughts to cloud my ever noisey brain. A tug comes from down below. My boy has come to talk with me. He doesn't say much in a way most humans come to take for granite, but he does know my name. I reach down and lift him up to my bed with what little strength I have left in me. He leans over to give me a kiss. What a sweet boy. He knows nothing of why we are here; hopefully no one ever remembers this awful moment. He sits with me, then presents me a board book he would like read. "Dadda," he says rubbing his tummy. For those who don't know, in baby sign language rubbing of the tummy is "PLEASE!" I proceed to indulge him in the animal names and pictures that grace all 12 pages. He points making a noise for animal we pass. How bright my son is, with the greatest of grin while making a cows moo. We finished the book about 3 times when I finally got up the courage to tell him the truth. "My father, your grandfather before us told me this once;" I said ever so gently staring into his eyes. "Every year we all would ask, your uncles and aunts along with myself. What did dad want for Father's day? This is what he said. Come to me at any point on that day and tell me, did I do a good job? Do you feel that what I have provided you has been enough? Needless to say we all, except for mom would still bring him a gift. Years later cleaning out my mom and dad's house we found hidden away in a box all the gifts we had given him. Never openned, never used and some still in the gift wrap. Going through the items, we all began to remember what year it was on each gift by what we all had bought him. One of your aunts began crying while reading a letter pulled out of that box of old gifts. My dad wrote, well I must have done ok, since you all could afford to bring me a gift each year. Somehow though I don't think I did all that was possible for all of you, since no one ever personally expressed their views with me. Never once did anyone say something about me you all like or didn't like. I hope you all feel my punishments and rewards were just.... Maybe the time I bought cake and didn't let any of the boys have you all resent me for that. How about the time we knew the girls were going out for really hot dates and us men as you are now, pulled the plug on the water heater. Boy them was some cold showers I bet." Tears ran down my face in front of my son and he smiled at me. I don't think he'll ever remember this day, but his smile was all but worth everything I could have done in life. He grew restless to play, and I understood. Letting him slip back down to the cold floor, he ran off looking for his yellow duck. A tiny yellow duck my father had bought me when I was his age. Stepping back from the headstone, the little boy fell to his knees weeping like the rain. So many thoughts. Had his father never wrote any of this down, he would never have know. With the recent passing of his mom just weeks after mother's day, he discovered a letter addressed to him. Now in the pouring rain kneeling before a headstone he shouted at the sky. I love you dad, and you did all that you could for me. My father past away on Father's Day, many years back. He had given up a very important organ so that my mother may live. She did, and for many years as I am now 95. I never understood why, he said that my grandfather referenced to all of us as Children of the sun. I think I figured it out the day I saw my son give a faded old yellow rubber duck to his son.
Art of Fighting
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Upload Date: 31/12/1969

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