He heard and saw it from the crest of the hill, looking down onto the building site: the foreman’s fingers-in-mouth whistle, his waving of hands, the gradual hush of machinery. He watched his father, the last to stop and wipe hands; the last to join the gathering men in the gathering silence. This is how he remembers him: sweated clothes, a clumsy shuffle, apologetically tardy. A look on his face, worn often, of overwhelming concern. No sound of blade on brick, no cement churn, no excavation of earth. Just the quiet framing him. The son stood and with the stolen telephone took a photograph. He shot photograph after photograph; the shutter-sound following each rapid tap. His father was to the right of the foreman, still wiping his hands. The son focused on the foreman: his fatty face and stained teeth, a too-small hardhat on Irish curls. He talked slowly. He shook his head. Nothing he could do. The son moved the viewfinder to the workers, shot them in their questions and anger, then back to his father, still wiping his hands on the rag.
What do You think about Your Father Sends His Love?
