The day I was born, my father crossed the equator. Neptune visited the ship, but did not pierce Dad's ear. The sea having stolen his youth, he came home to a wife and two kids. He settled into a job. He settled into a house. He settled into his chair in front of the TV. And the only thing to change was the channel. He may have occasionally changed his mind, but like changing underwear, it was something private. He was transformed by that chair into a silent, slumbering figure. If Father knew best, he never let us know. His absent authority swallowed my childhood -- now monochrome memories, flat and shapeless. With no standard but, "do your best," I trudged along on the treadmill of achievement. Ingesting my anger, it got stuck in my gut. I was high tundra heavy with virgin snow, icy, fierce and desolate. Skim ice may give a glossy sheen to even the shallowest puddle, but well-worn hard-packed February freeze gives no reflection. I had to drill through to find myself. Dropping a line, I could sometimes hook an emotion, popping the red flags of my traps. After a decade of adolescence, I finally rebelled -- a gerbil thrown from the wheel. My own son's observation of the ring in my ear is my wake-up call. I heard my father didn't approve of my pierced ear. Maybe he's still angry that he started dying so young. My father may sleep forever, but now I've crossed the equator.

Copyright � 1996 Ian Lynch. All rights reserved