A Man Named Aaron

 

in a lonesome man seeking peace, each mile of the rail home holds uncertainty. will she know me? twenty years: two wives, three children, a Pittsburgh gas-maker. a man of suspended dreams. he’s learned the past, like dragonflies, can hover in mist forever. his dream, Esther’s face. her smile: jack-in-the-pulpit bloom. her eyes: flint spark. her cheeks: snapdragon plump. her hair: corncob brown silk. once they sat under the oak tree after Sunday service; smoothed the funny pages. pulled from his pocket, the letter from his sister, Rachel. she said, Deacon died. come home. can’t come home with a new wife, a new baby. decisions made at forks in rutted roads last long. and it’s not easy to forgive family members who knew but kept secret. stuff the letter in a pocket. pretend they no longer exist. pretend until its ink bleeds midnight in a clutching hand.

 

 

Aaron’s Battle (2)

 

his first wife, a rebound woman he met in a book store. in his hands she clinked and clanged as if metal. in his arms, she’d twist until freed. when the first baby came, he had doubts. (is a man ever sure?) in Freeman, the elder woman could look and know truth by the ears. but he can’t go back. here in Pittsburgh, the skill fades in a sea of displaced youth. he was lost in whiskey bottles when the second child came. no doubts, just blind acceptance.  myth and misery combine, become as powerful as the gas he makes from molten steel fumes. almost deadly the day she leaves, his rage dances with shot glasses.  his second wife, by Freeman standards, a loose, gin drinking woman on a barstool is worse than a washerwoman’s daughter. misery loves a foil. another man, his so-called friend... (was he surprised or thankful when she ran off with that man?) twenty years in Pittsburgh don’t change the truth. you can’t always run from a fight. it chases you until you understand.