My Father, Who Wages Wars

My father waged the wars of everyday life.

He conquered the vast terrain of the flat-paved suburbia on his steed of metal and rubber, his chariot of manufactured movement barrelling over asphalt, fifteen miles per hour 

He constructed empires and engineered automobiles of all sorts, piece by piece, brick by brick. Plasticine layers and artificial colors made in a mold no different than the million others, but used to build something completely new.

He drew up layouts and plans for geometric miracles, and though he did not have the skills of a hardened artist, his lines were straight, and his measurements accurate. His foresight and strategy went unmatched, as planned as the mass from the preacher at the pulpit. 

He was a talented storyteller, making sure to include even the smallest of details. He entertained children with regalings of childhood memories. And he entertained his own with tales of the children who joyfully listened. Everyone knows that during war, one must keep their men entertained.

He rarely told stories from the mass. Though he was religious, he felt like something else entirely. Listening to him felt like a religion of its own, the meals he cooked, my skeptic’s eucharist. 

When my father fell, the priest came. He was less kind than anyone I had met, and held little tact in his head, even less than those who were my age. Perhaps he’d pushed it all out to make room for his God. The priests come to bless the fallen.

Our (F)father, who art in heaven

Have you delivered me from evil?