Steve
the EX-QUEEN of FW~!
He was learning to relish what’d once haunted his soul. The essence of peace, the quiet nature of the weathering of his heart which once fed the organ blood with no remorse, without asking if it deserved to gasp for breath again, disappointing those foolish enough to pin hopes to it’s pumping, was now serving him well.
Silence.
Mark Windham ran for years from the very idea. Fleeing the responsibility to love those who loved him, who distrusted him, and a brother who was, at the root of the problem—the veins supplying their black hearts demand, incapable of loving too.
He stood in the shadows, annoyed by the light: the calming effect her voice had on his conscience, and prayed for God to inflict an insufferable amount of noise between his ears; because it was best that way. If Moses can walk the desert friendless for a hundred years, then Windham pleaded he was free to serve forty, lost and too busy to remember a good brother repays those who harmed the family, tenfold.
No man can run without stopping. Windham’s body, enjoying the beating, needed rest. And the mind which governed it’s physical laws, consented, but ever aware, the demons were given access to the open, dark room.
The Ghosts Of Mark Windham had their say in Greensboro, sixteen years after the second life for the man began. He’s still feeling the aftershocks of their game: tug-of-war for the hammer to drive in the last nail. Windham’s shoulder aches, and his head desperately begs him to believe he’s ten years older than he is. Yet, it’s the best he’s felt since he was a young boy ripping line drives off the tee in Sweetwater, Texas.
“This is Mr. Stevens. He stood in for the father/daughter potato sack race.”
The voice belonged to Mark’s young daughter Thelma, sprawled out on the living room floor of Windham’s Sweetwater abode. A fleet of pictures were scattered above her fingertips, as she circled the mess for the exact 4x6 to hold up for her daddy’s weary face.
“Third place! Would have been second, but Jennifer accidentally elbowed Mr. Stevens in the ribs over the last twenty meters,” she paused, letting the words cut through the air. “Meant to do it, no secret.”
“Thelma...” Mark cautioned, as he watched happily from the couch.
“It’s the truth dad! Not being a sore loser, we were much to slow to catch Rodney and his pops, but Mr. Stevens was a former gymnast in school. He’s good at balancing himself!”
Mark laughed.
“I think he was joking, babe.”
“Oh.”
“Then it was funny,” she conceded, digging back in the pile for another Summer Camp memory. The girl Mark sent off to camp a month ago had shorter legs. Change happens so fast in her life, three months and he feels as if he’s missed a year. It’s why the last decade hurts.
“What was funny?”
“The nose dive he took when she pushe---he fell.”
Mark’s head sprung up, and the edges of his mouth pulled back like a theater curtain on opening night. “How much of it did he eat?”
“Oh!” She was giggling as if she was there again. Weeks removed, finally able to laugh about it. Thelma hated to lose, worse than Windham. What she won’t tell Mark, is jumping the gun on the start to take a needed headstart. “He’s probably still picking it out of his teeth, dad!”
He laughs, and unfolds his legs, resting them playfully on her back.
“Sounds like you picked a winner, baby.”
“I didn’t pick him! He was pushed on me! Gawd, I could see him walking to me, all slow and tripping over himself just to be in the race. I knew then, we weren’t winning. Ugh.”
This is why he lets her win at cards.
“Any more excuses?”
“One.”
Windham chuckles, and puts his hands behind his head. Two weeks ago he couldn’t do that.
“You weren’t there.”
The Good Father points he’d earned of late washed off his back like the tide returning back inside of the ocean’s belly, after nipping at children’s feet. What does he say? She’s half-grown and he’s never been there. What can he say, but ‘sorry’?
“I know.”
He used to cry because he couldn’t turn back time. The story of Windham’s life: days wishing for a second chance. The silence, his captor for the last eight years, used to pepper guilt over his soul, in hopes it’d implode. But the work he tired so hard to do himself, Benedict and Timmy did for him. Mark Windham: the ass, the sonofabitch who hurt anyone who loved him, was destroyed.
Has he said ‘thank you’ yet?
“I didn’t mean anything by that...”
“It’s okay. I wish I was there. We woulda won that damn race, and you know it.”
Thelma’s eyes lit up like a firefly on a dry, Texas summer night, “You were.”
She rolls out from under his touch, a leg-rest no longer and starts fishing again.
“Wanna get out of here for a while?”
“Yeah! Let’s go see a movie!”
Just what Mark had in mind, because if she asked to do anything physical he’d fall to pieces. He’s mending, but some of the bruises have stayed. He’s savoring them, as insurance he’ll never go back.
“Works for me. You pick.”
“The Princess Diaries 2!”
His heart sunk.
“Ah, come on!”
“It’s supposed to be good!”
“Thelma...”
“You said I pick, no takebacks.”
“I haven’t even seen the first one, I’ll be lost!”
“That’s okay,” she smiled devilishly, “I’ll fill you in on the way there.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Shut it!”
She hopped to her feet eagerly, “Get your shoes on, girl. Let’s get it over with as soon as we can.”
Mark rescued his car keys from the top of the television, and cracked the front door open.
“And please don’t talk all the way there about how bad movies are today, how they’ll never be as good as Raiders Of The Lost Ark, or...”
“Greatest movie of all-time...”
“Maybe I’ll just stay here, dad...”
“Mush,” he laughed, nudging her out the door, leaving a room full of silence to return to, and face alone when the inevitable approached, and Thelma went back to mom.
But he’s looking forward to facing the quiet, beating of his heart. He wants a reminder he’s still alive, and all time isn’t lost. For the first time in Windham’s life he doesn’t know what to do with himself.
And he doesn’t care.
Silence.
Mark Windham ran for years from the very idea. Fleeing the responsibility to love those who loved him, who distrusted him, and a brother who was, at the root of the problem—the veins supplying their black hearts demand, incapable of loving too.
He stood in the shadows, annoyed by the light: the calming effect her voice had on his conscience, and prayed for God to inflict an insufferable amount of noise between his ears; because it was best that way. If Moses can walk the desert friendless for a hundred years, then Windham pleaded he was free to serve forty, lost and too busy to remember a good brother repays those who harmed the family, tenfold.
No man can run without stopping. Windham’s body, enjoying the beating, needed rest. And the mind which governed it’s physical laws, consented, but ever aware, the demons were given access to the open, dark room.
The Ghosts Of Mark Windham had their say in Greensboro, sixteen years after the second life for the man began. He’s still feeling the aftershocks of their game: tug-of-war for the hammer to drive in the last nail. Windham’s shoulder aches, and his head desperately begs him to believe he’s ten years older than he is. Yet, it’s the best he’s felt since he was a young boy ripping line drives off the tee in Sweetwater, Texas.
“This is Mr. Stevens. He stood in for the father/daughter potato sack race.”
The voice belonged to Mark’s young daughter Thelma, sprawled out on the living room floor of Windham’s Sweetwater abode. A fleet of pictures were scattered above her fingertips, as she circled the mess for the exact 4x6 to hold up for her daddy’s weary face.
“Third place! Would have been second, but Jennifer accidentally elbowed Mr. Stevens in the ribs over the last twenty meters,” she paused, letting the words cut through the air. “Meant to do it, no secret.”
“Thelma...” Mark cautioned, as he watched happily from the couch.
“It’s the truth dad! Not being a sore loser, we were much to slow to catch Rodney and his pops, but Mr. Stevens was a former gymnast in school. He’s good at balancing himself!”
Mark laughed.
“I think he was joking, babe.”
“Oh.”
“Then it was funny,” she conceded, digging back in the pile for another Summer Camp memory. The girl Mark sent off to camp a month ago had shorter legs. Change happens so fast in her life, three months and he feels as if he’s missed a year. It’s why the last decade hurts.
“What was funny?”
“The nose dive he took when she pushe---he fell.”
Mark’s head sprung up, and the edges of his mouth pulled back like a theater curtain on opening night. “How much of it did he eat?”
“Oh!” She was giggling as if she was there again. Weeks removed, finally able to laugh about it. Thelma hated to lose, worse than Windham. What she won’t tell Mark, is jumping the gun on the start to take a needed headstart. “He’s probably still picking it out of his teeth, dad!”
He laughs, and unfolds his legs, resting them playfully on her back.
“Sounds like you picked a winner, baby.”
“I didn’t pick him! He was pushed on me! Gawd, I could see him walking to me, all slow and tripping over himself just to be in the race. I knew then, we weren’t winning. Ugh.”
This is why he lets her win at cards.
“Any more excuses?”
“One.”
Windham chuckles, and puts his hands behind his head. Two weeks ago he couldn’t do that.
“You weren’t there.”
The Good Father points he’d earned of late washed off his back like the tide returning back inside of the ocean’s belly, after nipping at children’s feet. What does he say? She’s half-grown and he’s never been there. What can he say, but ‘sorry’?
“I know.”
He used to cry because he couldn’t turn back time. The story of Windham’s life: days wishing for a second chance. The silence, his captor for the last eight years, used to pepper guilt over his soul, in hopes it’d implode. But the work he tired so hard to do himself, Benedict and Timmy did for him. Mark Windham: the ass, the sonofabitch who hurt anyone who loved him, was destroyed.
Has he said ‘thank you’ yet?
“I didn’t mean anything by that...”
“It’s okay. I wish I was there. We woulda won that damn race, and you know it.”
Thelma’s eyes lit up like a firefly on a dry, Texas summer night, “You were.”
She rolls out from under his touch, a leg-rest no longer and starts fishing again.
“Wanna get out of here for a while?”
“Yeah! Let’s go see a movie!”
Just what Mark had in mind, because if she asked to do anything physical he’d fall to pieces. He’s mending, but some of the bruises have stayed. He’s savoring them, as insurance he’ll never go back.
“Works for me. You pick.”
“The Princess Diaries 2!”
His heart sunk.
“Ah, come on!”
“It’s supposed to be good!”
“Thelma...”
“You said I pick, no takebacks.”
“I haven’t even seen the first one, I’ll be lost!”
“That’s okay,” she smiled devilishly, “I’ll fill you in on the way there.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Shut it!”
She hopped to her feet eagerly, “Get your shoes on, girl. Let’s get it over with as soon as we can.”
Mark rescued his car keys from the top of the television, and cracked the front door open.
“And please don’t talk all the way there about how bad movies are today, how they’ll never be as good as Raiders Of The Lost Ark, or...”
“Greatest movie of all-time...”
“Maybe I’ll just stay here, dad...”
“Mush,” he laughed, nudging her out the door, leaving a room full of silence to return to, and face alone when the inevitable approached, and Thelma went back to mom.
But he’s looking forward to facing the quiet, beating of his heart. He wants a reminder he’s still alive, and all time isn’t lost. For the first time in Windham’s life he doesn’t know what to do with himself.
And he doesn’t care.