Some time in the late afternoon of one
unusually warm mid-February
day, a blue Honda Odyssey was park-
-ing outside a rest stop on its way from
Highland, NY to Newark, NJ.

Concealed within were three generations
of men gingerly navigating their
way through tangled seat belts, safety locked doors,
and a slew of bruises and broken bones.

The men were 20 to 30 years a-
-part, making their way to Newark to drop
the eldest off at the airport for his
flight to Europe and eventual trip
through the Middle East. For now, though, they limped
and rolled their way across the windswept lot.

They laughed as they held the door for strangers
because they could see the absurdity
of three men, distant through time, looking
like the product of a father, son, and
grandpa brawl. Some deep generational
struggle at the Christmas party last year.

Looks like we’re all “suckers for crips,” one said.
And they knew that each of them had been hit
solidly, and that every man will be
if he stays, and that’s why they held the door,
for they find strength in the broken places.
They trust there’s no wound that love can’t restore.