The wind tripped through the terrain, like an elderly man in the last throes of an argument. My father was filled with stories and hot air.
Mostly hot air. I fanned myself, listening, but not really paying attention.
When I was a kid, father would become enraged if you looked away, or gave him a “look.’–he was so sharp back then. But now he was just babbling on and on.
I took my eyes from him for longer and longer periods, preferring the piece of the breeze that lifted the fronts of the nearby plants and bowed the heads of wild grass out front.
I knew should mow the lawn. I could drown out his voice that way.
But I was too lazy.