Head oil fills the creases of rough sun baked knuckles. Ponteus swipes each hand across his forehead repeatedly. The diamond shaped patterning of his leathery skin glistens light like a modern movie. He can almost see his reflection like he saw in the knuckles of his father as the godman pummeled his face into submission. How he waited for that man. How he took the pain and made it love. He often imagined having a boy to pummel by the side of the road as passers by whooped and hollered.
This is the night when he takes his girls out as sun turns to dark in a chill of a lesson and says to them, “This is Mozart” and spend the night listening.