I am fits of rage and passion. I spread my wings in a constant gathering- a gander and his goslings. The world is a dark and scary place and my instinct is to protect.
I push them out of nests built far from their ground, and the fear in my heart does a waltz with the pride. One, two. The boys soar and pride gets spun. One, two, three. The boys fall and fear gets dipped. The world is a never-ending ball and their dance cards are full.
There is safety in the box step and lessons in the mosh pit. Mine is to instruct. Mine is to encourage. I play the songs they need to hear.
I talked the boys through speeches tonight. They didn’t care about them, despite my insistence that one day they’d be proud to share this lifetime with those that dare change the beat. I dared them to hang the DJ.
We played games and did puzzles on the living room floor and our soundtrack was one of progress and hope. Therein lies my passion.
Yet, others have views that differ from mine. They crave a future that doesn’t hold promise, but doubt and debt. They place importance on things that shouldn’t matter. Things that shouldn’t even exist. People talking without speaking. People hearing without listening. People writing songs that voices never share. They dance with who brought them and there is no rhythm to their madness.
I take it personally, because it is. It’s an attack on the only thing that does matter- the children. My children. It is an attack on the future.
I gave the boys a bath and put them in bed. I played the song that I needed and turned my attentions to the kitchen, dirty dishes and full bottles of beer.
And the vision that was planted in my brain still remained, it spun and it dipped and it made me lose my count. I stood over a sink filled with hot, soapy water and savored a sip. The sounds were of silence, and a better man may have cried.