At Fifteen
My dad had his back to me and was looking out the sliding glass door at his garden. He had just learned his mother died the night before. I studied his back, his shoulders for signs of emotion. Finally he turned and came back to his La-Z-Boy and sat down. He didn’t weep, so much as seep. His face was all wet. The front of his shirt. His emotion had the velocity and purity of the vaguest mountain spring, slipping up from folds in the earth, between stones, over mossy rocks and thirsty roots from god-only-knows how deep down. Ferns grow in a place like that—where hiding, secrecy seems the best way to be.
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Mosey Time is a blog by Mark Mitchell that features daily postings. Most are very short and at least partly in the haiku tradition. On Sundays there may be longer pieces of writing. If you like you can subscribe to receive these as daily emails or as an RSS feed.
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