not sure what this is

From the journal night before last. I called it, “A Father’s Lament” It’s fictionish.

Brain skipping like an album at the end of the groove. Blood thumping in my ears. Stomach is uneasy. But the water, cold and clear, tastes sweet.

He wonders if it will taste the same when there’s no treatment. When you have to bare your fists and break bones and flesh to taste it.

Will it be warm? Fetid? Will it taste like dirt?

He thinks these things as the scroll assaults him. He should go run. Move. Plan.

His daughter sleeps on the sofa. It’s already fallen that far, and the dread of it scours.

For her, but for what? It won’t get better. He can’t hope. Hope lessens his guard, softens his vigilance. Blink but once and they starve. He won’t, but only because of her.

Even now, as he pauses a thought to take a breath, at the apex he can hear her tiny snores, free from strain and stress and worry.

When is the day she sees the world as it is? When does her light dim, the flame falter in the blown breath of disillusionment.

Not tonight. And it wasn’t today. He vows, again, to keep it from her tomorrow, despite the knowledge it has nothing to do with what he wants. It will just happen as things happen.

And that would be easier. Duty and mountains and feathers.

He finishes the breath, takes another. After all, things must sleep. Perhaps, especially, love and duty.