blister
my father was once young
and strong and full
of promise
he lifted weights
ran
cycled
almost everyday
and at the end
of each workout
he’d often take
his shoes off
(no socks)
and show us his
blisters
. . . . . . . . . . the ones that had formed
. . . . . . . . . . and the one that had broken
big balloons
of clear and red
water and blood
life and living
and he’d smile
at our reaction,
smile
as he toweled his feet off
and left
down the hall
this went on
until he turned 40,
when, on his birthday,
he locked himself
in the study
later that day
he let me in
he told me
he was too old,
that it was all over,
that nothing mattered
anyway
so why give
a shit
mother said he was
having a bad day,
but he never
lifted weights
ran
or cycled again
he never took off his shoes
and showed us his blisters
instead
he resigned himself
to the couch
sinking in
with a bottle of wine
or tequila
or soju
or whatever else
he felt like
that day
years later,
approaching 40 myself,
mother and I go out
for lunch
she tells me
his body is gone
his mind is going,
can’t tell if it’s CTE
(after three major falls)
or if he’s just an asshole
. . . . . . . . . . I think he might die
. . . . . . . . . . this year, she says finally
and I am picking at
my right index finger
with my right thumbnail
not knowing
the blister
that would form
and eventually
break
the bus stop
I drove him out
to the bus stop
He was pale, thin,
and very tired
I helped him
get his things
out of the trunk
“You ready?”
I said
He smirked
“I don’t know.
I’m going to sleep
on the train though.”
“Good luck.”
“Let’s hope.”
we hugged
and then I watched him
join the mass of people
moving inside the bus
when it was his turn
at the door
I thought he might give
a second glance
but I was wrong
he was just too tired
as the bus pulled away
I could see
the blue sky
the clouds
the greenness
of everything
in its place
with
people
coming
and going
brushing shoulders
on such a beautiful day
the hairdresser
yesterday
I went and got a haircut
the hairdresser was young,
nineteen or twenty at most,
and thin, very thin,
with a rainbow Mohawk
and tattooed feathers
running down
the side of her neck
“Let’s get that head
all the way down!”
she said
to start things off
I lowered my head
and she worked the clippers
along the back and sides
she held up a lock of hair
to the mirror
“That’s at least an inch long!
You haven’t been here
in a while, have you?”
“Three months.” I said
“Head down!” she said.
we were there for a while
at least a half an hour
and there was small talk,
of course,
about balding and X-chromosomes
about Paul’s perm
about parents and divorce
“One of my first memories,”
she said,
“I was two years old
sitting on the staircase
watching my mother pack
her things into boxes
before she left.”
“When I was nine,”
I replied,
“my parents were fighting,
screaming at each other.
And when it was quiet,
I went into the living room
and saw broken chairs
broken stools
broken glass
paper towels
unraveled
on the floor
and swinging
from the ceiling fan.”
she ran her fingers
through my hair
“They should have
just gotten divorced.”
I said.
“They would’ve been
a lot happier.”
“Yeah.” she said,
closing her fingers
over an uneven portion
and cutting.
“I wish I didn’t waste
so much time
worrying about it.”
“Head up!” she said,
handing me a mirror,
“How’s the length?”
I moved the mirror around
to find my reflection
I took too long
and the hairdresser laughed
Nathaniel Sverlow is a freelance writer of poetry and prose. He currently resides in the Sacramento area with three cats, one incredibly supportive wife, and his young son. His previous publishing credits include Typehouse Literary Magazine, Black Fox Literary Magazine, The Fiction Pool, Squawk Back, and Bone Parade. And, he is currently finishing his first poetry compilation, The Blue Flame of My Beating Heart, set to release later this year.
–Art by Giuseppe Milo