Filmmaker My Black Lung
My father’s hands wore their way right through his gloves through thirty years of doubt and love, thirty years of drought and flood. Trussing grid rode steady, moving in straight lines, traveling from work back to the farm from the quarry to the morgue.
We grow into our father’s shoes, into our father’s barstools, fill the roles we’re born to play. This is one phase we wont grow out of. I’m still saying this will never happen to me. If you’ll be there when I need you, then don’t say you’re leaving now. I’m up in arms until you reach me breathing through this blackened lung. If the minutes start like days and the moments feel the same, will you be there with open arms to save me.
My mother kept a tidy house father tried to keep her happy, the twelve hour shifts six days a week, hardly constitutes a family, hardly constitutes a life, well it kept food on the table, but it kept us up at night.
We grow into our father’s shoes, into our father’s barstools, fill the roles we’re born to play. This is one phase we won’t grow out of. I’m still saying this will never happen to me. If you’ll be there when I need you, then don’t say you’re leaving now I’m up in arms until you reach me, breathing through this blackened lung. If the minutes start like days and the moments feel the same, will you be there with open arms to save me.
Take the pictures out of their frames, hide them away with all our doubts and blames.
We grow into our father’s shoes, and into our fathers barstools, fill the roles we’re born to play. This is one phase we won’t grow out of. I’m still saying this will never happen to me. If you’ll be there when I need you, then don’t say you’re leaving now I’m standing here until you reach me breathing through this blackened lung. If the minutes start like days and the moments feel the same, will you be there with open arms to save me.
