Head of The Table

Tears of a son

“Mother where is father?”, tears followed afterwards a scenario that played its scene over the past decade or so, she never had enough in her to tell her son who his father really was, from birth he had blurry images off a man in a beard and the hefty manly laughter… a birthday later the picture grew more vivid, bulging eyes, short hair, big ears, brown hairy skin till that was it, electrocute his brain to a crisp that’s all he could figure out. Day after day in class he saw kids with a gender with no breasts, tall and intimidating, jawlines different and voices heavier, only later he realized that he was from that very gender, his reflection was the minor self of his much older version… problem was he never met him, well technically he had not met him since he grew weary of his senses and made use of his IQ to match colors and draw shapes. The boy grew emotionally hungry, the presence of his father figure was a key stone in shaping his sense the manly way, every Saturday night he se