#57 Anecdote
I dreamt of my mother crying.
I was frozen for a moment
before I felt a sudden rush
to flee to the other side.
Oh—and I don’t mean by death.
I’ve already, many times hence,
made dealings, conversed,
even placed my bets
with such a great of—
And so I did,
with all my mind,
let my gaze shift
to other pressing trivias.
I don’t want my tears flowing,
and so I have to—
I have to be busy.
I have to think of something else.
I have to be elsewhere.
Let my mind drift elsewhere,
all the while feeling immersed
in a world I’m losing my—
Oh. Alas.
It was all
nothing but a dream.
A make-believe.
A delusion.
Or maybe,
a reminder.
----
The sun basked in all the glory the world could offer, baking everything beneath its scorch. Clouds elsewhere wandered fleetingly, thinning, disappearing. A spell of dry wind caught an ensemble—the choir of many trying to shade‑avoid the heated dispute inside themselves and the vanity of the day sky.
It was afternoon, a few hours past peak. Yet the sun stayed constant, long in the sky, ever ready—adjudging everyone still changing, fleeting, ephemeral. The sun did not care.
Scattered below were metallic rooftops, some perfectly shaped cemented roof decks. There were cages, too—screens meant to block evening interlopers, or perhaps to let free minds roam, wondering whether flight was possible for men with nothing but clothes and dreams.
The paint on each—
But we don’t need to focus on those things.
A loud bang on a metallic gate hardly interrupted the street’s siesta. Shallow gazes flicked here and there; attentiveness was lacking, focus too. A young boy stood locked out of his house, soaked in the sun’s scorching rays, undergoing a trial—of patience, of endurance. He couldn’t wait any longer.
He pressed the doorbell for the nth time. His mind wandered to a distant place, ever so near yet far off. He really, really needed to go now. Inside the house.
But alas, fortune did not favor him gently.
Warmth spread.
He pissed himself.
The banging grew louder. The doorbell pressing became erratic.
He was furious now—mad at being unanswered, angry at not getting home immediately after a long, almost half‑day at school. A rigorous day, really: fun with friends, goofing around, not minding time wasted. And look—his not‑so‑poetic grades, lacking any remorse for aesthetics. He just wanted to get inside the house.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Damn. Damn.
His thoughts in cursive—mind the pun. His mouth silently cast the same cursives. Pun still intended.
His pants were warm and soaked, underwear sticky, knees trembling down to his calves. Dog‑tired from standing almost half an hour waiting for an answer. His socks, his black shoes—wet, musty, all the same.
He punched the metallic gate.
Footsteps.
Alas—salvation.
Yet whatever gratitude, appreciation, or that thing you feel when prayers get answered was clouded by hatred.
Soaked in piss. Pissed off. Left standing. Unanswered for minutes after returning home. Oh—such unimaginable, unnegligible defiance to face during an hour of need. Or rather, less than half an hour.
A metallic click sounded. The gate opened.
His father stood there.
Puffy eyes. Bags barely holding his sight. An unclean face, a faint drool mark near his lips. Messy hair. Overworn sleeping shorts. A sleeveless gym tank—comfort worn as a tiny reward for late‑night shifts, daytime work, endless travel back and forth, hence and fro, place to place, then finally home.
“Hey, son,” the father said softly.
The son’s face crumpled. His thoughts stayed cursive. His father failed to notice the puddle beneath his son.
How could Dad do that?
The nerve—to ignore such great plight.
“Come inside. It’s hot out—”
"Fuck."
The son sighed. The father heard it, but he let it slide. He misunderstood the day his son had endured—in the father’s mind:
My son must have had a rough day.
“What took so long, Dad?” His voice was menacing—mad, unmoving, ready to lash out.
“Sorry, son. I was sleep—”
“Look! I pissed myself.”
“Oh—come in, come in. I’m sorry—”
“You should’ve answered earlier. Now look what happened. Can’t you just—”
“I’m really sorry.”
“I’m musty. I’m tired. My calls weren’t answered. And now—this is on you, Dad. I hate you.”
The slap came heavy and sudden, untangling the cursive thoughts on the son’s crumpled face.
He froze.
What did I do wrong?
“We were sleeping, son,” the father said, voice shaking. “I’m sorry you couldn’t hold it any longer. I’m sorry we got tired and had to rest and let you suffer. Couldn’t you just… go take a leak on the wall outside?”
“No. No. No. You just hate me. I know it.”
Tears welled. He entered the gate, smelling of piss. His brand‑new watch chimed—the start of a new hour. Before the door, he flung off his recently bought shoes, unaware the tags were still tucked inside the soles. A mistake. Or maybe a marketing scheme.
He slammed the wooden door.
Closed it on his father.
The son rushed to his room, eyes burning. A faint shout followed him—it was his father.
“Go change your underwear too.”
The son didn’t hear. The son didn’t notice.