Brad Who Never Misses Leg Day But Skipped His Father's

Lyrics

Eleven forty-seven.A.M.Brad adjusts the compression socks.Optimizing blood flow.The playlist, curated to the millisecond, hits its crescendo.He finds his light in the wall of mirrors.A perfect, gleaming angle between the squat rack and the leg press.His phone is a black mirror, reflecting the strain in his face.A good strain. A chosen pain.The protein shaker waits, chalk-white, on the bench beside him.A sacrament.At eleven forty-seven, the flash catches the sweat on his temple.At high noon, they lower the casket into the ground.He chose the iron. He skipped the pine.A son's priorities, listed without irony, on the timeline.Leg day.Ten miles away, his mother smoothes the fabric on an empty chair.The front pew has a hole in it.The air is thick with lilies and quiet apologies for his absence."He's taking it hard," someone whispers.No one has checked his story.No one has seen the post yet.The caption just says: No. Days. Off.The hashtags are about gains.At eleven forty-seven, the flash catches the sweat on his temple.At high noon, they lower the casket into the ground.He chose the iron. He skipped the pine.A son's priorities, listed without irony, on the timeline.Leg day.A father's life, a whole history of it,Becomes a scheduling conflict.An inconvenience to the quads.Grief is an abstract noun, but the burn in his thighs is real.He can measure this. He can photograph this.He can post this proof of life while the other life is celebrated in whispers.A final farewell, traded for one more rep.One more picture of the only person he's really here for.The metallic tang of the weights.The blinding glimmer in the mirror.The phone goes back in his pocket.He never even knew his father's favorite color.