I always hated coming down stairs to the kitchen table. My dad would sit there across from the sink, reading the newspaper, taking a sip of his coffee, telling me that I would never amount to anything. About how I would always play with Buddy, my dog, leaving the work for him and Terry, my older brother. Then I would tell him that my life wasn’t to be a farmer like him and that I was made for better things.
“Better things. You don’t think that what your great-grandfather, grandfather, or your own father, for that matter, isn’t good enough for you!” Dad yelled.
Mother would set the pan on the stove and turn towards him to say, “Dave, oh, leave him alone. His teacher says he
Richards Perkins clenched his fist. The pain was becoming unbearable, again. From his seat on the bus, he saw an older woman crying, trying desperately to conceal her grief. Her hands were shaking just a little more each time they wiped the tears from her eyes. Her body tensed as she hugged her son. A scrawny boy, Richard thought, tightening his fist. His arms hung loosely at his sides. He readjusted his pants, pulling them up, then letting go, they fell back to their original place. They were obviously a few sizes too big. The boy hugged his mother one last time, then pulled a yellowed slip from his pocket. He gripped it triumphantly in his hand as he stepped onto the bus. Richard watched the boy’s mother a few moments longer. Her hands clutched over her eyes ,trying to stop herself from any more tears. He knew what it must have meant for her as he remembered what his own mother looked like when he was drafted two years earlier.