ManoJob
Manojob Pic(s)
The morning sun cast long, gentle shadows across the quiet kitchen, where the only sound was the soft scratch of the brush in my hand. His large, weathered flannel shirt hung loosely on my frame, carrying the faint, comforting scent of sawdust and his cologne. He sat patiently before me, his breathing a slow, steady tide as I carefully worked through the thick, unruly strands of his beard. My fingers, trembling slightly at first, learned the landscape of his strong jaw, feeling the tension there slowly begin to ebb away. Each stroke of the bristles was a silent question, and his quiet sigh was a trusting answer, a language we were building between us. I watched the tiny flecks of silver caught in the dark hair glint like hidden stars, a map of his years I was only just beginning to read. This was not a chore, but a fragile bridge built of these quiet, intimate moments, a delicate thread stitching our separate lives together. A profound tenderness bloomed in my chest, warm and overwhelming, for this man who had quietly become my anchor. In the stillness, with the golden light washing over us, I felt the last of my own guarded walls crumble into dust. This was the art of taming, not a beast, but the beautiful, wild distance between a daughter and her father.
Comments
Post a Comment