Once upon a time

"you are not my cure, nobody has that power," - Margaret Atwood

But the patriarch is getting old now. A weariness settled deep in his puffy eyes and round belly. He walks with pride while his posture remains burdened with his own reign. He wakes up oblivious to the world around him and gets on with his day. He earns bread and makes sure there's food on the table. But there is enough food now. That's not required of him. He does it regardless.

The patriarch is pitiable—frail, tired, crying for his mother. He howls and wails but nobody has to know. He stands proud, disregarding his grief. He tells himself he is a good man. His subjects tell him he is a good man. He is convinced he is a good man.

The patriarch doesn't always fiddle with tools of oppression. The patriarch is delighted sometimes when his subjects turn the court into a theatre of the absurd. He appreciates when his favourite subject doesn't pester him with their recitals of despondency. He likes the court quaint and balanced. He likes the silence of subjugation. He calls it reverence, a tribute he is “worthy of being offered”, or else he won't eat that night.

“The men must be tended to”, he keeps reminding his subjects. And this was the law of the land.

His subjects take shelter in the court's kitchen—while they help each other with the pile of dishes and shell peas. They murmur and grumble.

Hush. "He didn't have to be that cruel about the salt", cries Subject 1.

Hush. "Perhaps, he is having a bad day", says Subject 2.

Hush. "I am having a bad day too", Subject 1 retorts.

Hush. "You're brave to keep it together", Subject 2 consoles.

The patriarch is not in the court today. He is out hunting and deceiving. The subjects are adorning the courtroom with flowers of their liking. They dance around the court and inhale the air. They leave their hair unbound and their breasts bare. The subjects are relishing the deliciousness of liberty. They have 5 hours.

Hush. "He won't like those colours. Take them down.", cried Subject 2.

"This isn't about him", Subject 1 states firmly.

Hush. "Maybe you're right. But we don't have the time today".

The patriarch appreciates flowers. They misjudged him this time. He isn't a monster. He likes flowers. But they take the flowers down anyway. They don't know what he desires. They know what makes him angry. They don't know what pleases him.

Nobody in the court knows what brings anyone joy. They're all living under the same roof—unaware, silent, occasionally cheerful. Like a well-mannered family.

The patriarch is old.

The patriarch isn't powerless.

His power never lived in his hands.

The patriarch is the power.

Angry. Lonely. Frightened. Conflicted.

But the patriarch needs to stay relevant. He fears that to be unseen is to be unmade. So he must haunt—even when he isn’t there, even when he dies, even when you swear you'll never become him.

When you grow up with an angry man around you, there is always an angry man around you.

love,

k