I left early to go to my school’s literary magazine publishing party. I had plans to dress up nice, but it was cold and windy and rainy and I couldn’t bear the thought of walking through it in a dress and heels. I went in jeans instead.
Feeling hot and dizzy in a room crammed with old books and people, I take a seat but already want to leave. I was published, so I came. I sit through the program.
After, the retired professor who can’t seem to stop coming back reads her piece. Two paragraphs, and I am crying. “A seed from a seed, destined to plant more seeds. A son of a father, and one day a father of a son. What kind of father will I be?”  Words written by her former student.
He will never be a father.
The big windows next to me show the grey sky, and the lush trees blow around to distract me. I can’t be outside, so I imagine the room is empty. If it were, I’d lay on a shelf and press a cold book cover on my face.
Someone sees me crying about the boy I didn’t even know. She thinks I am deeper than I really am. I wipe snot on my jeans because there’s nowhere else it can go.
It’s over and I leave quickly to avoid questions and eyes. Outside, I am now glad for the whipping wind. It rips my bun apart and I don’t care. I am late for class.
I climb the stairs and as I get closer to the room, green ribbons drift past. I wonder how long they’ll stay up. I wonder how long it will be until this school contains not a person who cares about the boy they only hear in stories. The boy who never graduated. Who missed his 24th birthday. Who will never be a father.


This entry was published on April 15, 2014 at 11:29 PM. It’s filed under Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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