Flights in warland.

a brick building

Our fathers, when we saw them, were haunted. They would haunt us later, but we knew better than to pretend we hadn’t learned: here is the world of ghosts, begotten not made, one in being with our forebears. We learned––and learned to catch ourselves. Ghosting, we called it. Are you okay? we called and Just checking? and sometimes we wondered all of it at once: how and who they were and where but mostly we did what children did as they grew, we acted roles in response. We wanted to know for ourselves what it was to disappear, too. Or else we wanted to make our disappearances known to those who took our heads for granted as anchors to this world. I’ll fly away, we sang under our breaths at the sink, and meant it.

Author: Stacey C. Johnson

I keep watch and listen, mostly in dark places.

2 thoughts on “Recurrence”

  1. My dad was a WW2 vet and I always thought that was a carryover from the war. The older I got the more I realized that it was a side effect of life for many, a life where the hurt and wounds weren’t able to be tended. I forgave my father by not becoming him. He seemed angry and resigned at the end … this piece brought all that back. It is quite a beautiful offering.

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