My Father My Boy

I found that I was finding Jesus wherever I wasn’t looking for him. As soon as my guard went down there was his warped face in the puddle I was about to step in. Then SPLASH!– He was gone again. Or– Or in a light about to be turned off. Turn it back on and it’s just a naked light bulb swaying oh… so… gently. And I would laugh. And Damn I would laugh because what a sneaky bastard.
The mother had the ironing board out melting together what yesterday was broken and filling out the wrinkles. And she was lonely. The father was across the table stirring coffee, a full cup of cold coffee and reading the paper, and he too was lonely. Jesus was sleeping in the corner of my eye all in tatters, and he was cozy. I am magic, you wanna know why? Because as soon as I sit down a bowl of oatmeal appears before my eyes, steaming and fogging the image of Jesus. And my eyes get the best of me and have a peak, but he remains safely tucked away in the corner of corners, in the shadow of shadows. His face twitches, his body stirs, but never once is his unconsciousness even the slightest bit disturbed. He remains still cozy and he remains still Jesus and he remains still safely out of sight. Just enough. Sneaky Bastard.
“Good Morning.” Said the mother with a warm smile. A purposefully ignorant smile. Blissfully so but still so. And it occurs to me with great displeasure that it was not I who placed the oatmeal there with magic but the mother with hands. Wishful Thinking. Jesus chuckles in his sleep at my foolishness. Or maybe at an amusing dream. But I think it was me. Even unconscious he can see all and hear all and read all! Sneaky bastard! He should return as a mind reader and take every ones money. And I hear him chuckle again because what in heaven and on earth and in hell would Jesus need with ill gotten gains?
“Good morning, mother.” I smile slyly into my oatmeal but do not eat. I will save it for Jesus and maybe if I offer it to him he will slink out of where he hides now. Jesus chuckles. The Mother irons. The Father flips but does not sip. I take his coffee and sip for him. I need something to get me through the day. He looks at me. He glares at me in confusion.
“What are you doing? What are you doing there, boy?”
I look at him blankly and raise the cup for a moment, “Having coffee.”
“Don’t get smart with me, boy,” Am I getting smart with him? “You think that’s funny?” Do I think that’s funny?
“I don’t know what you mean. I’m just having coffee. Not telling jokes, not getting smart.”
He slams his mighty father hand open palm on the table, “Having coffee? Having coffee, yes my coffee. Mine.”
“You weren’t drinking, you were just stirring it. I saw you and you were stirring and flipping but not sipping.”
“Maybe I was waiting for it to cool down huh? Did you ever think of that smart guy?” Am I a smart guy?
I touch the coffee to my lips briefly and shiver. “Cold as ice, father.” And I ask myself, where’s Jesus? Because he is no longer cozy and tattered underneath filthy, moth eaten, borrowed blankets in the corner of corners of my eye. But ah! Ah, I think, because there he is laughing in the palm of my fathers hand and– and I stumble outside where it is cold to stop the stinging. But the stinging does not stop and my face is hot as fire and the stinging spreads to my toes and my finger tips. But by the time it gets there the stinging is cold. By the time it gets to the bottom of the bottom of my feet and the tips of the tips of my fingers it has gone cold and painful.
I hear a woman crying, “Why, Gregory, why? He’s just a boy! How dare you? How dare you? To my son? To your son?” And OH! she really shouldn’t scream so loud because I know the man she’s talking to has a headache. He always has a headache when he’s mad. I don’t know how I know but I know. I think Jesus mentioned it to me once or twice. Or maybe this has happened before?
And then she’s not crying anymore. Not out loud anyway. Very… silently. And the mice hear her and they cry in their little mouse holes and the dogs hear her and they look up from digging their dog holes. And all you hear is the ragged breath of a terrible man. And OH!– I squeeze my eyes so tight and in the lights that flash in there in that darkness resulting from the squeezing and the screaming ringing in my ears. And oh I see it… I find that I can find Jesus just by closing my eyes. I find that when I find Jesus the stinging stops and the screaming stops and all you hear when you find Jesus is his soft forgiving chuckle. Somewhere off in the distance in the opposite direction of Jesus’ chuckle I can hear the oatmeal go cold but I’d like to think that Jesus would eat it anyway.