The New Father
"Hello everyone," said the New Father. He was eating popcorn from a small star-spangled bag. When he licked his fingers, we could see how shiny they were from the butter. Miniscule balls of butter rolling in the maelstrom folds of his knuckles. How knotted those knuckles seem! How gigantic and beautiful!
"I'm the new Boss," he said. His teeth were yellow and brown with ground popcorn.
In his hands was the Manual for Fathers. It's binding was professional and antique with a golden foil striped down the spine. Our last Father had the same book, all Fathers do, but the last didn't carry his in quite such a fashion.
"May I see your Manual," I asked him.
"May I see yours?" he returned. The Manual for Sons should never be seen by Fathers, whom have long forgotten the passionate, crashing waves of youth.
"Go to your room," he says. "Go to your room, shut your mouth. I'll call you for dinner."
The New Father doesn't seem to understand the two-way street. He will.
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