Mom sat by the shore, wailing. Dad stood by, trying his hardest to remain stoic. I remember just being over it. They saw ruins where I saw the remains of a beautiful past. “But the past is still the past. I’m alive in the present and I just want to live for the future,” my teenage-self thought.
The war was epic, even by epic war standards. Little was left standing. A handful of us survived. We built a ship to take us to whatever came next. I couldn’t wait to jump on board and push off. The adults, on the other hand, kept going on and on with their hand wringing and melancholy... “Hurry the fuck up!” I wanted to scream. I yearned to see what else was out there. I dreamed of new worlds and pretty girls.
In the years that followed, life brought me insane adventures. It brought me new worlds. It brought me many (many!) beautiful women. Each adventure, each world, each love ended with its own ruins and once again, I would board a new ship and push forward. At first l didn’t want to look back. I wanted to believe it was some righteous choice about the past not being worth it. Really, it was just fear.
With age, the curiosity began to outweigh the fear. I looked back and, almost unsurprisingly, I just saw a beautiful past. I found I did not have to remain stoic. I smiled. I laughed. Sometimes I even cried. But I never longed for the ruins. I see my children and I hope they never see me wring my hands. I hope they know they can move forward, with or without me. And I really hope they never feel the urge to scream “hurry the fuck up, dad!”
I submitted this story to the online magazine With Painted Words. Every month they put up an image and invite writers to submit pieces inspired by it. They were kind enough to publish mine in their December issue. The inspiration image was a photograph by Roman Zherdytskyi.
