A blog about writing and all things story…
I saw a raggedy man. That raggedy man… my father.
He’d come to ask for money, for booze, for forgiveness, for pardon for his raggedy life. Or perhaps he’d come to ask for time. Our time together, thirty years ago, lost to his drunkenness, his raggedy minutes, days, months, turned to years – Lost. So lost. No more time. The sands have sifted through his raggedy grasp.
He stood, no, leaned against the lamp post outside my apartment: peered up to my window, up to the light, from the shadows where he stood. In those shadows where he’d lived his life, afraid of the moon, afraid of light, afraid of me…lost to the darkness. So lost. Then he disappeared, as he’d done all my life. Gone. Lost. That raggedy man. Lost to his raggedy Anne. Lost.
I ran from the apartment, down three flights of stairs, pushed through the locked doors and spilled, breathless onto the street, spinning in circles, searching that darkness for his shadow. The doors behind me slammed closed. I peered into the dark night, listened for the silent echoes of time – but gone, gone, gone…so lost was he to me.
I once saw a raggedy man, so lost he was to me.
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By Miri Elm
(re)Living History, with occasional attempts at humor and the rare pot-luck subject. Sorry, it's BYOB. All I have is Hamm's.
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