this is prayer tied up in in too few short minutes of silent, bent forward, head down, solemnity.

the younger mirrors the older and leans in, watching the task without seeing two histories winding through wise fingers undeterred by cold and passersby.

a father’s duty guiding his father’s hands wrapped around laces and while resolute on one knee at the feet of his son, he asks the younger, “is it right?” he knows it is. they both do.

still, his son nods and stands and after a pause, the older rises too, ignoring the distant aches, then settles in his place to watch the future stride out of the room.

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