Later, After the Return
After we’d wiped our hands of the fatted
calf and the older brother finally stopped
stewing there were moments when it was
just me and the old man, moments when
my father would lean in close and whisper
me to tell him stories of the far country
he used to rove in as a younger man.
In those quiet conversations I realized the
complexity of the parable into which I was
born. I saw I am my father’s dreams.
It is a complex parable, indeed. And oh, how I hope that elder brother stopped stewing.
Love it. Will be subscribing.
Oh, and regarding the elder brother: borders closed to keep our lgbt brothers and sisters in the far country tell me that in our time, he’s doing worse than “stewing”.