When the immortal became mortal…

I was eight, maybe nine, and it should have

changed my world to see that my father was

a mere mortal – flesh and bones and blood,

but it only made him more of a superman

to me, impervious to torn flesh and oozing

blood – deep red and opaque seeping from

the gash on his knuckle, layers of skin torn

away by a trowel as he gardened and I played

nearby; “Look,” was all he said and I peered

into his wound to see the bright white of his

bone exposed, a little knob of pearl between

the serrated opening, he bent his finger

and it danced, and for once I said nothing,

for almost fifty years; such a display should

cure the myth of paternal immortality,

but it’s effect was the exact opposite.

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