Gemotions

He poured himself another glass of whiskey, the amber liquid swirling in the crystal tumbler. His son’s embrace of Rastafarianism – the dreadlocks, the reggae music, the constant talk of Jah – had been a slow burn, a gradual erosion of their shared understanding. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling, the constellations of cracks in the plaster a map of his discontent. He couldn’t bring himself to look at his son, whose new persona made him a stranger. Each shared silence was a crushing blow. The taste of the whiskey was acrid on his tongue.