A Parable

The hero crosses the threshold of the house.  His family greets him with joyful acclaim.  A fresh laurel wreath is placed over his head.  He returns these affections, yet the hero is tired.

As the potentiality of the automobile inexorably moves down the assembly line, as the asteroid half-heartedly resists the black hole's gravitational pull, so his body mindlessly succumbs to the arm chair's call.  The cushions remember his form and welcome him into their kind embraces.  His book and reading glasses lie just within arm's reach.

The bookmark has been faithful to its calling, and the hero finds his place.  He reads:  "The King, whose face had begun to look more haggard, sighed and. . . ."

"Jump, Daddy?"

"Ok, buddy."  The hero sets his book aside and positions himself to receive, with the least amount of pain, the projectile missile which his son's body.

The scene eventually ends, and he returns to his book.  "The King, whose face had begun to look more haggard, sighed and. . . ."

"Book?  Peez, Daddy.  Boo Train Green Train?"

The hero hates Blue Train, Green Train.  He's read it aloud seventy times seven.  Pieces of his soul break off with each reading.  Yet he has been gone all day, and his wife could use a little help.  "Ok, buddy."

Three other life-killing board books later, the hero finds his friend, patient as an oak tree, lying at the side.  "The King, whose face had begun to look more haggard, sighed and. . . ."

"Honey, will you take out the trash?"

"Of course," he says with outer enthusiasm and inner resignation.  The hero does not read much today.  His blog is neglected once again.