At times I feel a fraud; a make-believe person in a cold harsh world. The skills I profess to have as useless as errant trivia, manifesting nothing tangible at the end of the day - but only when the wind chills me to the bone do I feel old, and frail. The next morning I may awake with the strength of ten men and outpace those younger than myself with efficiency and virility, for my arms are strong and my body lithe from feeding upon the land. I am a genius at whatever I set my hand to. Until I am no longer, and regress once again. An irrational game of up and down dependent seemingly upon the weather alone.
One cup of coffee in ten thousand might rouse memories of my maternal grandmother, a flawed woman raised in a society which subjugated her solely due to the slow evolution of flawed societal rule; raised to believe in things which did not exist because those who brought her up were taught the same by those which brought forth them in a broken cycle of a skipping record playing backwards completely deceiving the listener as to the real message.
Yet I saw no flaws in my grandmother as my own children see none in their grandparents. Will my own grandchildren who see only goodness in me be my sole salvation? Will the passing down from generation to generation unconditional love be enough to wipe away the sins of the father?