“I wonder if my family
Thinks of me much
While I am away?”
Asked the father
To no one in particular
In that lunch-time circle.
He chewed absently,
His true self spirited away
To the village on no map
That would even have it,
Where something was
Made from nothing
With only his two hands.
A sigh escaped, squinting
In the bright light,
Surrounded by twisted metal,
Hardened steel and
Mountains of dirt
That marred the landscape
In the name of progress.
The father slid back into
His beaten gloves,
Exhaust escaping his lungs
Clouding his cab
As he shifted his gears
Out of neutral.
Industrial screams cried out
To no one in particular,
Unheard by the family he left:
The son and daughter
In the television room,
Strumming on an
Out of tune guitar.
The eldest son outside,
Avoiding his chores.
His wife painting her lips,
Torturing her hair in heat,
Making herself feel
As beautiful as he did.
Quietly they went on,
The father and family,
Only circumstance between,
Figuring out how to play
Certain songs and
How to feel something
More than what the sun
Had to offer that day.
Composed 07/08/2012
Author’s Note: Many fathers, I have found, have moved away from their families for most of the year while they work in the large mines scattered across Mongolia. They go away for several weeks or months, and then are given a few weeks vacation to return to their families. One woman I knew, whose husband works out in the Gobi, works for six weeks, and then comes home for two. I always wondered how this affects the family dynamics, especially if they have younger children.
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