Beeson Blues Pt. 1

The crows, never falling, still they sit, still they sit on the sugar-maple branches just above my window. Watching, waiting for an instant they know is near—his breathing eyes are falling shallow. The spot over him, shining into his tiny pores, his brown eyes like me, his father, it shines into a face fighting for light every day.

Young Son of Beeson Fortune Debilitated, all the headlines read week after week, and I cannot take it much longer. Every limestone brick of this mansion, freshly laid for him, just months ago the news stories touted Carbide Pipeline to Light the Way for Beeson Family, an eternal flame I desire for him. An eternal flame I must have known was needed for him. We had the pipeline built into the house, as the drafts in Niles are deadly. We knew we had to run a line when we had to call a doctor in for our newborn light. A draft blew the window open, blew out his candle, and he stopped breathing for minutes. Death of fright is nothing to be joked about. And it was cheaper at the time to run the pipeline through the house and the cemetery, to the crypt where my sweet mother is buried. A light shining always for her, and new light shining for my boy.

But now his tiny pores are closing under the watchful eyes of the fields outside his window. “Leave me be!” My wife, too heartbroken to leave her own forested room, she knows it’s time too, leaves the watching to the crows. Glass eyes set to judge life, set to look in from the shadows of our trees, feel our spirits as they lift from bodies. They sit, the crows, never falling into flight, never falling out or down, the crows only lift away when my boy lifts away into the night.


Melancholia is what they deem it, they incessant need to stay inside, only travel out to help with the feeding. I know I should stop, but the pipeline guides the way, the hot hiss I hear every night walking across the street. My boy now spending each night with my mother, but not an anchor enough. She has been away for years, out of the loop, out of the ways of knowing how to properly bathe a child, let alone feed one daily. I bring the bowls and jars and napkins to the little white chamber, the light already on for me.


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