Optimus

Waving diligently from my work table sits Optimus. Once thriving, he commanded fleets of heroic robots and roared down the highways of our collective dreams. Now, wounded in my basement, his leg unceremoniously torn from his body by an angry toddler, he appears slightly less stoic. I can’t blame him; I had found him in a hamper, having been hidden away in shame by his aggressor. His honor besmirched, I shook my head and swore to do my best with super glue and paper clips.

Ironically, his aggressor made me promise that I would repair Optimus. That it wasn’t his fault and that we needed to restore our leader. This Optimus, after all, is very special, as it belonged to a dear friend who has since passed away. However, my feeble attempts have failed thus far, and Optimus waves on.

As fatherhood progresses, I find myself desperately trying to cling to the tentpoles of the past. As I’ve grown older, though, I realize that there is a cold comfort in the breeze outside of the tent. I never really knew what a father was, and that took its toll, but I realize that if I can just be here, and swear to work on myself and what I’m building, I will be a lot closer to where I want to be.