Half the Battle

M. Stanley Bubien

My first son returned, and I, vigorous and youthful, embraced him. "I forgive you," I said, and he smiled.

I dressed him in fine cloth, and he paraded. I slaughtered fattened calf, and he feasted. I summoned singers, and he danced.

With arms open, I strode forward. "Come, reminisce," and I indicated my sitting room.

He raised a palm. "I go to seek my fortune," and he departed.

"He'll be back," my second daughter sniffed, grasping my two fingers.

My first son returned, and I, middle-age softened, embraced him. "I forgive you," I said, and he smiled.

Dressing him in finer cloth than before, slaughtering a grown bull, and inviting famed musicians, I watched him enjoy.

Opening my arms, I sauntered forward, "Come, reminisce."

Palm raised, he said in departure, "I go to increase my fortune."

"He'll be back, my second daughter scowled, arm about my waist.

My first son returned, and I, wintering with years, embraced him. "I forgive you," I said, and he smiled.

Cloth, food, entertainment again.

Arms open, I wheeled chair forward, "Come, reminisce."

Palm raised, "I depart to abide my fortune."

"He'll be back," my second daughter shook her head, patting my shoulder.

My first son returned, and I, deathbed ridden, embraced him. "I forgive you," I whispered.

His eyes darted in anticipation.

"Yet," I tapped my bedside in invitation, "forgiveness is but half the battle."

He frowned and returned to his fortune.

"Will he be back?" my second daughter asked, sharing a seat upon my bedding.

I held her hand.

Copyright ©2000 M. Stanley Bubien. All Rights Reserved.

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September, 2000 Issue #53

256 Words

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