Night Watch -------------------------------------------
He was like a man who discovered his past by accident in a haze of heroin heíd boiled and poured into his eyes. We were afraid of him but we wanted to respect him even though heíd collapsed his veins and wore shades to protect his bloodshot orbs. My mother prayed because there wasnít any other hope for us. We were a near fatherless group of four living in a trailer a mile outside of town, but Mom never complained about our bastard lives. He loved us with a deadbeat fatherís half-hearted devotion, and Iím sure he was always gone to keep us from the line of fire.
They found him in a ditch when I was eleven, and we buried him in another with the help of a local church where Mom spent most of her time. She was the exhausted demigod to Dadís total devil but we were too young to know why she was tired. Now she rests the way an angel might that had outlasted hell.
Sha-zam, man! This is about as Southern Gothic as you can get. I don't know if you intended that effect, but it hit the nail hard. There are no extra words or an attempt to make this scene any more, or less, than it is.
You do not "copy" any author or poet who spoke this sparse language. You do not make this tale overly-drab or sensational. For me this is an eloquent journal entry made at 3:00am when an artist's mind is most restless.
There is a carelessness which may fool many. This is no accidental success.
sometimes you have this way of bringing a feeling so close, you can touch it. i don't know... this is hard living. just plain old hard. and how do you find hope in situations like this, how do you bear the struggle of daily life? but then if this is all that is known, somewhere along the way you just learn to live the hand you've been given. hope can make things bearable. faith makes it liveable.
i think kids are unaware of the struggles a parent may go through until they look back.
because their experience is different. (most times). and not necessarily less painful.
this is touching, and sad, and hard, and real feeling. and still, there is this tenderness that comes through. a tenderness that isn't pity.
If this is about your childhood Bill, then I can only say that it is wonderful that a quality fruit can be produced from such an awfully tilled garden. Such a mother would have to have been an angel misplaced to hell. A really gritty write, congratulations. Ted.
this sweeps you up because of the child's eye view and because, even so, that view is one step removed from a [censored] wife, [censored] mother who is unknowingly the answer to her own prayers. That kind of responsibility is
the kind of great burden woman endure. That's my mum minus the drugs, it's too many mums. Women have a great ability to endure.