Father's day

Is Sunday. I will spend it hurling the contents of my father's hoarded, dusty junk pile into a loud metal dumpster. I spent my recent birthday scrambling around the same dumpster, scavenging lenses from old tube cameras, film projectors and slide carousels. It was a symbolic act, stealing the eyes from the dead machines that make up my father's legacy.

I am sadder now than before. This is not how it is supposed to work, time is supposed to heal wounds...ALL of them. My wounds don't even know what they are yet. Bloodless like the cut from a razor blade, a sharp edge in a bin that catches a calf and slices.