04-11-2013, 01:00 AM
As he sat by his daughter’s hospital bed,
he wondered to himself
if there was anything special about him
that put him in such a seemingly
important position.
He searched his mind for meanings,
and the way things have been known
to be done.
The way things take place.
Maybe he was some sort of bastard child.
No; he was pretty sure his parents were married
long before he had even been thought about,
let alone acted on.
His mother was obviously not a virgin;
it wasn’t that.
But a truth hit him, and it was just as obvious,
unbelievably obvious.
His mother had died in childbirth,
and the way he heard the story,
she was dead before he was all the way out.
And maybe that was it:
He was born of a dead woman.
“A Dead Woman’s Son”
was the name of his first successful short story;
and many followed after.
He began spending most of his time at the writing building,
unable to face himself in the presence of his wife
or daughter at home after the accident,
which left the child’s brain permanently damaged.
He had to write,
and to do that, he had to face himself daily.
So he started sleeping at the building;
and lolled himself in the thought of the expenses he’d paid,
financing the surgery and corrective procedures his daughter had needed.
Book after book poured out of his bottomless soul,
novel after novel, over a short span of years.
His fourth novel, A God That Doesn’t Lie,
won the Pulitzer he’d almost gave up in hoping for.
Now—his success was real.
he wondered to himself
if there was anything special about him
that put him in such a seemingly
important position.
He searched his mind for meanings,
and the way things have been known
to be done.
The way things take place.
Maybe he was some sort of bastard child.
No; he was pretty sure his parents were married
long before he had even been thought about,
let alone acted on.
His mother was obviously not a virgin;
it wasn’t that.
But a truth hit him, and it was just as obvious,
unbelievably obvious.
His mother had died in childbirth,
and the way he heard the story,
she was dead before he was all the way out.
And maybe that was it:
He was born of a dead woman.
“A Dead Woman’s Son”
was the name of his first successful short story;
and many followed after.
He began spending most of his time at the writing building,
unable to face himself in the presence of his wife
or daughter at home after the accident,
which left the child’s brain permanently damaged.
He had to write,
and to do that, he had to face himself daily.
So he started sleeping at the building;
and lolled himself in the thought of the expenses he’d paid,
financing the surgery and corrective procedures his daughter had needed.
Book after book poured out of his bottomless soul,
novel after novel, over a short span of years.
His fourth novel, A God That Doesn’t Lie,
won the Pulitzer he’d almost gave up in hoping for.
Now—his success was real.