To Kill The Giant

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Glass and Metal

He cleared his desk in the glass office overlooking the square below, putting the pictures in the small packing box, hesitating at the picture of his baby boy. Holding onto it, he lit a half smirk at the how the time had flown since this picture was taken. His baby boy, no longer in diapers, changing every day right in front of his eyes. That would be his next agenda, getting more pictures of his precious baby boy, spending more time with him. He was now 3 years of age and how many days had he spent with him since he took this job? He could count on his hand the moments. He definitely wanted to enroll him in karate in the next two years and teach him how to throw a baseball. All the things a father should teach a son.
Looking around at what he was leaving, at his own request, the momentum had not ceased. The office was bustling, hectic, women in skirts buzzed by him, carrying paperwork, zuit suits on telephones in glass offices in the sky making deals and yet, he felt so removed from it. Like he didn’t belong there. He never belonged there. Yeah, there might have been a time he felt he fit in but it was a brief moment. The boys in the office were cut throat and he didn’t want to teach his kid about the kind of lifestyle that he had been caught up in. The nightly happy hours, the broads, the booze. If you didn’t socialize with the gang, the heavy hitters after work and compare notes, your law degree might as well be thrown in the trash. You had to socialize to get ahead in that firm. Maybe he didn’t belong anywhere but back with his family. He couldn’t go home. She threw him out. “Choose me or the job she demanded two years ago. How could he support the baby and her if he didn’t work? What was she thinking when she issued that ultimatum? Had she been taking lessons from her father, a master sargeant in the Army? Now, he made the final choice, to leave the firm, for a quieter position across the river. He could finally spend the time with his boy like he wanted to. Now he had all the time he wanted and some money in the bank for support for his son.
With the stroke of the packing tape dispenser, he was through with his personal belongings. Grabbing his lone possessions, he shook hands with a cohort. Where were his close friends? The ones he had beers with at the local tavern? Were they to busy to wish him well in leaving the rat race? Realizing they were never his friends, the determination showed even further as he grabbed his box and headed down to the elevator. He didn’t think he would miss this life. It had already cost him his wife, and home life. Now he had to rebuild what was left. He had saved enough to buy a small white apartment across the river in the burbs and he would start over. Just him and his precious son facing life together, depending on when he could see him. She always held the reins to his little lifeline. Now that he had the time and finances in place, he decided to spend his energy on the baby and building a law life away from the prestigious firm and maybe, just maybe, she might take him back.
The elevator door opened and out he walked as fast as he could to his new life. It had taken time to get to where he wanted to be so his hopes were to rush to his new home, his baby boy.
Then it happened, his box went flying in the air, papers caught in the wind, tossed around like a lost soul searching for a place to land, scattered like his life had been all those years..all the moments that could have been were now lost. Glass met metal.
He never saw the bus.

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Measures in Time

The eternal smile, worn tight, fosters an agist culture that demands youthfulness. Constant bombardment of natural cures, anti aging creams, cool sculpting to going under the knife for the sake of erasing time stares back at you in the mirror. The deep circles or sagging neck, the jowls all define the human person as it ages. The greying of the hairs, crows feet flying, smaller eyes, are but the signs of father time and the measures he places upon the human body.
The time it took someone to experience life, to outgrow diapers, to spell, read and write, hit their first baseball, or learn to ride a bike, is wiped away. Where did the line go that signified true loss and pain or , the moment you captured love in the eyes of another? Is it magically lessened? Sent away in one knife and one pull of the skin? Where did the smile upon attending the grandchild’s first birthday go? What happened to the wrinkle that upturned on its own, that symbolized the marriage to the love of your life? The frown line when you scrunched your face thinking? That cuteness with abandonment filled by botox. When the character lines are erased, where might have the character of the moment of that particular memory have gone? Each subtle pull of the fingers, tightening ever so gently, takes away what life intended you remember. The scar from falling in the river on oysters, the laugh lines from the comedy club, a night spent with friends to the minutest engravings left behind after the worst breakup, where has it gone? Holding the lifeless furry body of your best friend after getting hit by the car, where is the life line on you to connect you to that moment? It’s gone. This is life found in the memories of your skin, character lines of where you have been, and what your soul has experienced.
The attention placed on the soul must be greater than the attention placed on the outward appearance if one is to remain forever young.