The father comes home from a long day at work. He kisses his wife. He unbuttons a polo once crisp in the morning and changes into a relaxed, breezy sando. He sits in his chair facing the television. His eyes are fixed on the evening news — oil price hikes, traffic updates, score cards of a favorite sport play out on the screen.
The sight of the screen is registered onto tired eyes pulled down by a dead weight. The hair on his head recedes as if waves retreating from the shore, with strands of white scattered about.
He is called for supper and moves wearily to the table, careful with his knees, ankles and every other joint that functions like rusty clockwork.
The son comes home from a long day at school. He kisses his mother. He unbuttons a polo once crisp in the morning and changes into a relaxed, breezy sando. He goes up to his room, blasts the room with music from a stereo and opens the computer- music videos, status updates, score cards of a favourite sport play out on the screen.
The sight of this is registered onto eyes that still shine with a flare of youth. A full hat of hair is intact on his head.
He is called for supper and jumps out of the room and hurries down the flight of stairs without the slightest sense of caution.
Over supper, the father sits at the far end of the table, towering over everything with sheer authority. The son sits next to his mother, nodding and answering questions every time he has to.
These are the conventions we know. Nonetheless, the father is a man and the son is a boy but it is never always the case. In their own right, both of them could easily be either. #
Conventions is an exercise for Journalism 111 (Feature Writing) in 2014