To Love a Father
    
Malachi had always thought that Papa resembled one of the Greek statues—the kind born to rule a garden or museum hall, all powerful shapes and shadows cut from perfect, indestructible stone. It wasn’t the godlike beauty or chiseled muscles that they held in common. Papa’s nose was shaped like a radish, his back hunched and twisted. Instead, it was the milky silence of their eyes, that shared, marble quality that drew Papa nearer to the species of statues than of humans.
    
From the doorway, Malachi watched his father’s back rise and fall. Ginger, the family cat—dead for hours now—lay curled in his arms. Though Papa’s face was hidden, the stuttering rhythm of his shoulders gave away his tears.
    
For whatever reason, Malachi ached to see those hard eyes, which had only ever burned with indifference for him, and to lend his support to Papa. He yearned to express his love, to show that he cared for his father as he grieved.
    
But how?
    
Whether he cried over a kitten or not, this was still Papa, the statue of a man who had never even flashed a smile toward his son, let alone welcomed his affection. What gesture of Malachi’s might he accept? As he slumped against the wall, Malachi thought and thought. Should he take it upon himself to prepare a lavish dinner for Papa tonight? Or heave Papa’s toolbox out back and try to fix that old leaky pipe he was always going on about? Malachi strained his mind until it hurt, and until Papa’s sobs had subsided to a quiet, lonely sound.
    
Malachi peeked back into the kitchen. He saw how the candlelight made Papa’s muscles look even more fearsome, his great arms even more brutish; to anyone else, he was the picture of power and capability. But to Malachi, he was just a big, softhearted man, who, at the moment, simply needed his son’s unconditional love and support—no frills or grandeur necessary.
    
Malachi crossed the kitchen and hugged his father. Even without seeing, he could feel those stony eyes fill with warmth.