words as photographs

    It was before students and teachers began their work. Rico saw a jaded reflection at the window of one empty classroom. It was framed by steaming breath. Frosty silence wrapped him atop the courtyard stairs at Rewley House. In his image he saw how aged he became. The tanned skin was his since he remembered, but the hairs, grey, were not. The harried creases in his face had been grafted in prison.     He turned to bricks making up the buildings. Similar stones made up the courtyard wall where he and “Petty Theft” Tomas used to whittle away time. Tom “Petty” had a big laugh. It bounced off the walls.     Putting out his cigarette, he picked up his tool bag and started down the steps to resume serving the community. As he passed the tree with red leaves - he wasn’t good with names, not real ones anyway - he remembered Rodrigo toiling away at his own garden, lean brown muscles flexing. Dutiful gardener that one. Calm voice he had. Rosita...

Optimism is gladly swimming up the shit creek, I reckon. I need a grandson. Not a son, but a son of a son, so I can start imparting these pearls of wisdom. Maybe I'll adopt a boy and wait for him to reach adulthood and his loins to bear fruit. Then neglect and disown him, thus bringing into this world another tortured artist at odds with his father. Then reconcile through my grandson, who will still be innocent and of a different temper, sheltered but mindful of the damages done by the arrogance of older men.