ipswich.

with your your son and his uncle in the car, typically a man wouldn’t pull over to the side of the road off the beaten path in Ipswich, and jump off a fucking bridge. into the shallow water, mind you. because you saw someone ten years your junior attempting the same. you wouldn’t hit the riverbed, slicing your foot the long way, so deep that you couldn’t work the clutch, so your brother—who lost his license somewhere in the ’70s—has to drive us to the emergency room, but only after you commiserated with the guy ten years your junior, who somehow managed to mangle his hand. typically, a man wouldn’t do that, but my dad did.

and when the shut off notices pile up, and the man can no longer escape the boy, you don’t think—you take the thrill in front of you as consolation prize, even if it’s only a laceration.

many years later, it was something else: Thailand. a last minute ski trip in Aspen. the family all laid up on the couch with bandaged feet. he never didn’t love us, he just never had an adventure before we were born, i reckon, and when he finally had a few chips to play with, he ran.

typically, men wouldn’t do that, but my dad did. then so did i.