I made my bed today. It made the room look clean. I straightened the quilt tucked in over the pillows, set my shoes inside the closet, took a look and a breath and realized, my mother did not care.
I picked up a book, my father had read it years ago. I took it in thoroughly and realized my father didn’t care anymore, if it were read or not.
I stood out at the edge of life and looked toward the west. I watched as the sun was down past the crest of seeing and was settling for the night; the miraculous light beams broke the sky and the white clouds above stirred the air, below the colors so red, blackish dark at the ground and yet up higher I could still see the glow of tainted yellow and white of the western sun as it peered one more time at me.
They cared for me. Not for the trivial things they tried to teach, not for the happy life they worked so hard to portray, not for the finer moments of pride and happiness following, but for me. This cannot be carried, this can only be worn.
Ralph Peck
Photo by Ralph Peck
Between Chelsea and Big Cabin Oklahoma
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