Christopher Collingwood: ‘Drips of Hardship’

Drips of Hardship

He used to run the tap for hours—
allowing streams of water
to overflow in his cupped hands;
as if he was begging for fairness,
but the world couldn’t spare the change.
I could see him staring, as the
days dripped off his fingertips,
leaving only frustration
and the river of dirt
that seemed to bury his youth.
He used to scrub his hands
in such ritual, like he was
trying to remove another self;
but it wasn’t from anger, or shame,
or sadness, the soap moved too
freely for that.
He was searching for something,
a faithless struggle; like washing was
a way to understand his discontent,
allowing him to forgive the
moments that made him unhappy.
It was only after the tap
stopped dripping and his hands
were freed, that he would find
his way back home.
That’s when the comfort
returned to his eyes, and he would
make a space for me in his life;
offering me his hand, allowing
me to touch the sore skin
that the struggle had left behind.
I would wonder if Dad had won
the…