Hascal

Every time I peel an orange I remember him. From that one corner of the porch where he always sat, I felt like I could see the world. Maybe even a rare peek of his.  He scared all the children besides me. Thats how I felt his love. The fear enticed me. 

His skin was grayish from decades of smoke lapping it, and mine was pink with summer sunburn. The tobacco in his barn rotted away like I knew his insides were. Even at six I could feel death with him. We sat. In our silence we spoke. Connected by blood and separated by all that was left. 

One day we were alone on the porch. I sat beside him in silence while he peeled an  orange. He handed me a slice. I took it with no words. It was like I was eating his love. Devouring all I knew he would ever give to me. He never looked in my eyes. It was as though what we shared in that moment was to big for him feel. He softened to me.

I would never know his abuse. What he yielded or what he endured. I would never fathom his demons or even witness his laughter. But one single smile he allowed. My whole life. One that I knew was honor for my eyes. One that I would tell my young family members as they looked back in disbelief. 

I found love for a man ten times my age. He was my epiphany of death, acceptance and intimacy. To know that I did so little to gain the warmth of a heart so hardened. I was enough. In silence, in presence. He said, "you're alright, kid." 

For years after his death I would play in his barn. Nap in his bed with longing and fear of his ghost. But every time we would travel down that dirt road to the place that held his memory, I would spend a moment on that porch corner shedding tears for a man I felt only I knew.