There is a picture that hangs above my father-in-law's fireplace.
He titled it "Men in the mountains" and in it,
he is holding his youngest grandchild while
my three brothers-in-law sit to his right, tightly
holding on to their children, lest the mountain air
carry them away as it has done with my plans
so many times before.

I, on the other hand,
stand at his left, at the other hand,
the forgotten hand, but I stand
stoic, proud, balancing out
the wholly right with the seemingly endless
peaks and valleys, the highs and lows
of what God has left for the wind and rivers
to carve and make their own.

I am carved from blood and stone,
but the river of blood is dried,
unable to run life downstream.
And let it be known,
I was the last in my bloodline
to be carved from the stone.
And so,

I look at that picture
above the fireplace and think
I should not be there. Not because I am not a man, I am.
But because a central idea
so clearly begins
in my father-in-law’s eyes and runs
through his arms and into
the hands holding his grandchild.
The brothers share that idea. I see it
in their smiles, strength, upright stances,
and senses of accomplishment,
and their children should have it too,
for that is what is expected.

It's an idea shared
by the mountains and accompanying hills,
and through time itself as it runs down
through the river in the valley and off
into the future.
It is an idea that men have carried
and then passed for generations—an idea placed
next to those sitting at the right hand of the father,
and I, so clearly, stand at his left.

Nick Gaffney

Photo by Click Sluice on Unsplash