Father’s Son

            The sky spit sleet, or frozen rain, it was difficult to tell in the darkness. Whatever it was popped off his jacket, refusing to embed itself in the black faux wool. 

            It had crusted over the morning’s snow, which now provided a loud crunch whenever he took a step; not ideal conditions. He took careful steps, picking out the spots he felt were safest but he had had to move into the street, slick with slush to get better traction. His boots were soaked, his feet beginning to numb and there were more treacherous icy spots, but it was quieter. That was what he needed, quiet.

            The February cold hugged him close, it seeped through the lining of his coat and had settled deep in his bones. He hadn’t worn enough layers, but then he had wanted the cold to come in, to cool his anger, and calm his mind.

            What he hadn’t wanted were his hands to go numb. He’d tried to clear the car, which would have made this errand so much easier, but the wintery mix had frozen the locks, making it impossible to get in. His hands had frozen in the process. They were now stuffed in his pockets, clawing at the depths for warmth.

            He remembered this cold from his youth, when he wouldn’t bring his gloves out to recess. His hands would get so cold they would hurt. He’d jam them down into the pocket of his jeans in hopes of some relief, but the material was always too thin. His hands would get to the point where the pain of the cold became normal and it almost hurt worse to have them rub against the fabric then it did to just have them feel cold.

            Those were simpler times. He fingered the cold plastic grip of the gun in his pocket and wished it were snowing. He wanted big fat flakes that fell in steady waves through the yellow light of the street lamps, not this icy whatever that made a ticking sound as it bounced off his hood. Too much noise.

            There was a pleasant memory of walking at night through a soft snow with his father. Then there was the memory of all the years without a father. That wasn’t going to be him, that’s why he was out in this mess.

            She’d asked him to go to the store because Junior needed milk. It was too wet and cold for her to feed him in this weather. They had a good spot in the doorway of an abandoned shoe store, out of the wind, but it was still freezing.

            He couldn’t tell her he’d spent the last of what they’d begged on a bindle. Not because she’d be upset he bought it, but because he hadn’t shared it with her. He was angry about that now. He was always making dumb choices.

 The convenience store glowed warm on the other side of the parking lot. He sighed. He wasn’t going to be his father.