He carries out the nightly ritual
ordained by his mother
by embracing whoever’s there.
He moves among us through the incense of nicotine like a little priest in a pair of hopeful spiderman pajamas.
He tiptoes over the empty beer bottles and bowls of cigarette butts to lay his damp head on our thighs and wrap his squat arms around our legs.

He blesses us all goodnight
in a voice too deep for a boy of only seven. When it’s my turn, I always sit up straight and sober, hide my beer behind my back—ashamed.

The day before, I found him out back on the rickety deck hurling beer bottles left on the ledge deep into the bamboo below. I never knew my real dad, he tells me.

Neither did I, I hear myself say.
He stops throwing brown bottle stones
and cocks his head at me like a dog
as if my confession was a sound that
went beyond the range of normal
7-year-old boy understanding.

I flounder for words,
some sort of comforting cliche
to spread out between us like a bridge.
It takes all kinds of families
to make up the world.
Something neither of us believe.

Yeah I know, he says, going back to his bottles. He doesn’t mean it. He’s just agreeing with the adult because that’s what is expected of him.
That’s what is always expected of him.

Later that night,
his mother tells us he’s been accepted into the gifted program at school.
She is proud, sloshing her words
around like liquor in a glass, as if her Alabama genes had anything to do with it.

As if on cue he enters in the dark flowing robes of Darth Vader.
He holds up his saber like a staff above us. His newest father laughs and grabs it from him, hitting too hard in his red wine state. But the boy hits back and knocks off his glasses.

We hoot and holler. He runs to his mother. She looks at her red faced man feeling on the floor for his glasses.
Then she looks down at the boy, his arms around her leg–sends him to bed without saying his prayers.

He hugs me as he walks by and says goodnight. I hold on too long, clutching at the corner of his robe. He pulls away and cocks his head at me. I flounder for some comforting cliche.
It will get better. You’ll see. These things take time. Something neither of us believe.

Yeah, I know. He says in a voice too deep for a boy of only seven.
But he doesn’t know and neither do I. But that is a confession we keep to ourselves. Because it’s what’s expected. It’s what’s always expected.

About Heidi Stauff

Ultimately ending up in Atlanta, Heidi's creative impulses followed many paths. She delivered middle-class, white-girl, angst to tens and twenties of Generation-Xers through the now defunct rock-band, Belljar. She designed hundreds of dresses for Disney-bound little girls. She birthed two babies she now homeschools, lost and then found her faith again, and writes about all of it in her free time: which is usually after midnight with a glass or three of wine.
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8 Responses to Repentance

  1. jonzin73 says:

    It wouldn’t be so powerful if it had not sadly been an actual event. Beautifully written about a sad moment in life.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Bela Johnson says:

    Some of my most powerful poetry was written when my girls were small. Difficult times for families torn asunder, no fault of their own. And so we grow. And so it goes. ❤

    Liked by 1 person

  3. “sloshing her words
    around like liquor in a glass,” – Nice lines.


  4. Wow. This story was so good I hated it. It is such a sad vignette of life that I tried hard not to like it. But you’re writing, as always, was so evocative, so beautiful, so profound, that it kept drawing me back, day after day… rereading it, contemplating it, absorbing it… until I came to understand and appreciate its depth and truth so much that I could no longer prevent my finger from tapping the “like” button.

    Your story also inspired me to reconsider my decision not to post a story I wrote with a similar theme around 15 years ago. It’s one of my earliest pieces, so it’s almost embarrassingly biased, preachy, and a little lacking in my current standards of writing quality, but your portrayal of hurting children and ashamed adults stirred it up in my heart again. It does portray a valid point to be taken into consideration in the working-mother versus stay-at-home mom debate, and it does communicate what was at the time my highly personal and quite staunch opinion on the subject (although my position has somewhat softened over the years), so now I’m beginning to wonder if I should go ahead and post it, albeit with a little editing and a couple of caveats in an intro. Any advice?

    Anyway, thanks for yet another beautiful, well written, and inspirational piece. You have become one of favorite authors.


    • Thank you, yet again, for making my day with your thoughtful responses. I say read it again, and if you need to, edit it some then post. Almost everything I’ve posted was crap I wrote 10 years ago that I reworked into something halfway decent. I think the primary instincts we have when we are younger sometimes ring very fresh and true in an honest and open way. As we get older, our insight can lend it some much needed polishing and honing…and you have a great piece. Again, thank you for the compliment. I look forward to reading your piece.

      Liked by 1 person

  5. Pingback: Intro to Nakomai’s Immortality – James Clark — The Next Iteration

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