Elect Mercy

I hate your face.
A smug reflection of someone you never knew, couldn’t have known. Not your fault, I know. But I hate your face, even if it’s not fully formed yet, soft flesh and drying milk. I hate your coping mechanisms, cries and suckling blanket corners, pulls and yanks. I resent the slave you’ve made me, a Pavlov’s dog to your screams and coos.
I resent your father for his bravado, his belief in go to war and return. I resent my younger self for believing his belief. For swooning in his arms and dreaming medals adorning the mantel piece.
Sometimes I wonder if my commitment to constant danger is bravery or folly. In sparse times all men are merciless. Why have I elected mercy? You have not, he did not, fate and time have not.
And yet, when I stand over deep gorges, on cliffs over rivers, and hold you out, away from my chest and pounding heart, my hands do not falter as I might wish they would. Gasping, sobbing, clutching your smallness back to me, I resent the parts of me I see in your eyes, the helplessness and stubbornness, this pigheaded refusal to give up and die.
I hate your face, but I hate mine, too.