The Burden Of Early ManHood

A three-wheeler cuts through crisp Adirondack air, Dust trailing like memories refusing to settle. Seven years old, with a rifle too heavy to bear, Not just its weight, but what it asks of me to level. Baldwin Road stretches behind like a timeline, Each inch etched in the muscle memory of youth: The lawn I mowed, the woodpile stacked in line, A child building something solid amid unspoken truth. Father's departure, an invisible fault line That cracked open all I knew of love and home. Not with explosion, but a quiet phone call's design, His voice matter-of-fact as he chose to roam. "Males are bound to cheat," he said from a hotel bed, Words becoming prophecy, a generational curse. At fifteen, I became the man of the house instead, While mother sought solace as our lives grew worse. Electricity flickered; sometimes on, sometimes not, A perfect metaphor for our precarious existence. Early lessons taught: nothing stays, whether you want it or not, Each connection a risk, each bond a calculated distance. The three-wheeler cuts on, through memories like a knife, I am both child forced to grow and man seeking to heal. This map of survival charts the roads of my life; Wounds carried, passages hard, yet somehow still real. Roads untraveled are sometimes the most important journeys, The paths not taken echo loudest in the soul's quiet yearning.

The Weight Of Absence

The smell of coffee. Before dawn. Reminds me of all the mornings. I wasn't there. Another day. Another jobsite. Another moment. Lost forever. My toolbox is heavier than it looks. Inside: wrenches, pipes, fittings,and the weight. Of a thousand missed moments. Lauren's first day of kindergarten. Her small hand. Clutching a lunchbox. I never saw. Grace's solo. In the Christmas play. Her voice rising. Through an auditorium. Where my seat. Remained empty. I was fixing. A burst pipe. Across town. Thinking I was doing. What was right. I built systems. That bring warmth. To other people's homes. While my own grew colder. "Daddy has to work." Became the refrain. Of their childhood. The steady drumbeat. The paycheck. That kept us afloat. Drowned me. In regret. There is no magic. In watching your daughters. Grow up through photos. Sent to your phone. No beauty. In hearing "It's okay. Dad, I understand." From a child too young. To understand anything. Except absence. My calloused hands. Built things meant. To last decades. But I can't rebuild. Those lost years. Can't reinstall. The bedtime stories. Never read. Can't reconnect. The conversations. Never had. The calendar pages. Flipped with cruel. Efficiency. While I was underground. In service tunnels. My daughters transformed. From pigtailed children. To poised young women. In the blink of an eye. A blink I missed. While focusing on pressure. Gauges and blueprints. Believing that providing. Was enough. The simplest moments; Lauren blowing out. Birthday candles. While I was on call. Grace's handmade. Father's Day cards. That greeted me. Days after. They were made. These intimate rituals. Of their lives. Developed without. My witness. My toolbox now sits. Half-empty. In the garage. While my heart feels. Completely vacant. The pipes I've installed. Will service buildings. For decades. But I failed to lay. The foundation of presence. A structural defect. No master tradesman. Can repair. Each morning. The rich aroma. Of coffee brewing. Mingles with the bitter. Taste of regret. The paycheck. That once seemed. So crucial. Feels hollow against. The wealth of moments. Forever lost. Christmas mornings. Half-experienced. Through FaceTime. Birthday parties. Attended only. Long enough to sing. Before being called away. In the end. The pipes will continue. To flow long after. I'm gone. But what will Lauren and Grace. Remember? A phantom father. Who loved them. From a distance. A man who thought. Providing a good life. Meant missing. The life itself. If I could go back. I'd measure success. Differently. Not in overtime hours. Or completed jobs. But in first-day-of-school. Pictures and Christmas plays. Attended. Because now I understand. That the most precious things. Truly are priceless. And the cost of missing them. Even while thinking. I was doing what was right. Is a debt I can never. Never. Repay.