The same calloused hands folded in grace at the table, enveloped faintly in the steam from mashed potatoes and steak. The same hands covering his mouth while his body wracked, trying to drag breath deeply up from the bottom of a phlegmy smoker’s cough. Only Daddy didn’t smoke. Stone dust worked in unmineable blue veins through the rough crags of his hands.
This story was inspired by the poetry of Phil Levine and Raymond Carver.
[If you enjoy the mostly-free access to my short fiction that this site allows, please consider becoming a monthly patron or making a one-time “tip jar” donation. Without the support of readers like you, I’d be exhaling bureaucracy in a cubicle somewhere, glowing with a desktop monitor tan.]