Father and Sons

A vignette from the PATH

You were wearing a burnt orange shirt, the wrinkles on your face worn in with laughter. Two young boys sat with you, one curled on your lap, the weight of his body supported by his right foot, which you grasped in your unbanded left hand. The other knelt on his seat, palms and nose and forehead pressed flat against the glass.

Both wore striped, apple-colored shirts. Candy apple red. Granny Smith green.

They were curious. Insistent. Asked question after question in high, chirping voices.

And you were so patient, the lone father with his two sons, talking about diamonds and rocks and other things that last forever.