Friday, December 21, 2007

The King

Well, I don't know what to write; so I will write what has already been written. Here is a story that I started, errors and all. I don't think it's very good, but I just need to put something in here or else I will never start.


"Every body wants the best"

The call came as i was leaving work.

"Michael" my father said. At this point, i already knew that something was wrong. I have heard him say my name many times through the course of my life, and have become pretty familiar with the limited library of emotions that his voice was able to connote. Usually, his voice was warm, and gruff. He had a slight drawl that outsiders had a tendency to mistake as a "southern accent". It wasn't a "southern accent. It was a Texan Accent. His voice was the product of years of hard work, and the back-breaking up bringing that taught him about everything that's important in life.

Now, by definition, my father is not a cowboy. Often times when i tell people were I grew up, upon further inquiry, they find out that we had horses and cows, and the stereotypes start to fly. My father, and his father, and his grandfather alike, were farmers. Not Ranchers, not Cowboys, but Farmers. Now, in a casual terms, gruff old men from texas who wear wide-brim hats (at least on occasion), are often called cowboys. Now although my father fit's that very loose definition, he is also a very proud farmer, and preffered to be labeled as such. The "Hyde Family Farm" was his life. His entire life.

When he was happy, his voice was soothing and sweet like a tall glass of lemonade being sipped down on a hot July evening as the sun was quitting a hard day of warming the earth. When he was stern, his voice was commanding and unquestionable. His voice would command every bone in your body to bend to his will. It would pull you and steer you to whatever direction it was that he wanted.. and inevetably, you to wanted it too. When he was angry... well, when he ws angry, the end of the world always felt very very near.

But just now, his voice was something else. I almost didn't recognise it.. it was something that i had only been privy to hearing only a few times in my life... and what made it all the more distinct was the differnce from how he usually spoke. It was slow. It was somber; it was sad.

"Michael" he repeated a second time to make sure that I was there.

"Hey Dad.. how is it going?" I asked.. fully aware of the answer.

"It's your uncle" he said. "He's back in the hospital..".

He paused for a moment, as if to try and stop himself. Even this early into the conversation, his voice was already starting to sound more and more congested.. as if his throat was giving out on him, and he had to try harder and harder to use mouth to make the words that he was trying to say.

I already knew what he was going to say. My uncle, my uncle Loyd had lung cancer. He had been fighting it for the last 4 years.. but he has always come out on top. Uncle Loyd always did.

".. He.. hes back at the hospital.. the.. the doctor doesn't think hes going to get out"

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