Returning Home on a Sunday Drive

"Returning Home on a Sunday Drive"
By
Brian Paul Dunlop


I have always thought people can communicate better through social networking - they were more themselves, behind a shield of mechanical sexurity; no sarcasm denoted, most of the time.

I remember my younger days; I've always liked dark soda - my mom was a hippie nut - a nudist, and a savage beast at times; the downfall of estrogen for ome or was it because of being raised in an oppressive environment?

Many dreams provoke me upon this Sunday drive to mother. Such a sweet, sweet lady. She didn't mean a thing. It was her father. It was her mother. It was the whole world.

And now, here, I return to her - back her son, her light, her guard. And father, he will pester her no more; that sick devil of a man. His dictatorship rein shall come to an end.

And even in his death, does he haunt the house - as my mother shakes, alone in bed. Now, I have come home to protect her. I know most would deem the woman mad, but not me.

I remember the day, my father fell through the wheat thresher - such a day, so far in the past that it lays upon my brain, a gray haze - I can't remember much about that day, but I do remember what my mom alwys use to tell me, "Secrets are better kept within."