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Son


by Christopher Bowen


There came years later he walked through the former palace city from when the child had been conceived and years later even since he'd left the child's mother. Teaching from the streets like this, from city to city, many more than he could've as any king, many felt this was his belonging. But he could not teach his son, coming up the lower hill with the pack of followers and the robes and the enlightenment. 

The son, a shovel in his hands from planting, turned his brown face walking left up the forked road, growing up and away, facing and into the sun. But don't we all?

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