The Waster and the Waiting | Previous Challenge Entry

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TITLE: The Waster and the Waiting | Previous Challenge Entry
By Stanley McMahon
02/13/16
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There he was, sitting by the window, watching. He had been there ever since the boy had left in such a hurry; ever since the big bust-up when he had demanded everything that was due to him, even though it wasn’t due to him.

It had broken his heart, and some of the father’s friends said it had broken his mind. Why else would he sit here day after day?

‘Look, you’ve got to get over this. It’s doing you no good, sitting here, watching like this’, counselled his friends. ‘Why are you doing this after the way he treated you?’ ‘What makes you think he’s coming back anyway?’ ‘Let him go.’

On the face of it, it sounded like good advice. They couldn’t understand why he would bother, not only apparently forgiving his son, but waiting for his return. He had been disrespectful, belligerent, unfair, foul-mouthed, immature, demanding and heartless. He had set his heart on running away, leaving everything his father had built up for him and his brother, but he wouldn’t go empty-handed. He had talked about his rights, what he was entitled to.

But rather than the father cutting him off since his graceful behaviour, he had chosen to search for him daily. Every day he would come to the window that opened out over the valley, and the only road into his estate. If he was coming, he would have to come this way. He would see him.

The son woke up to the stench of the animals he had been working with, but the smell came from his clothes, not the pigs. He hadn’t washed properly in weeks. He had been abandoned by his so-called friends when the money ran out.

He had been humiliated by the job he had found, but it was either that or starve. He had genuinely considered starving to be the better option, but then his survival instinct kicked in and he took the job nobody else was willing to take; this would never be mentioned at home, if he ever did go back.

As the father waited, the son wept. He had had enough. He had been away from home for two years. At first he had laughed and drank, and ate and lazed around. He had done his own thing without thought for anyone else, for the future, or the consequences of his revelry. He had been his own man, living life to the full. And now look at him!

As he wept he started thinking about the impossible. What if… what if he was to go home again? Not as his father’s son, of course not, but maybe a servant, maybe just work for payment in kind for a while. Even he couldn’t envisage walking straight back into the family. He could maybe avoid his father, see how the land lay and perhaps take it slowly. It was a plan fraught with danger and risk and improbabilities. He deserved nothing, but his options were few, or maybe this was the only one.

The son started out. He had a long way to go. The father waited and walked as he had done for two years now. He had not listened to his friends. He had not given up hope. He would never give up. His compassion for his lost son was deeper than the hurt he had been subjected to by him. He would not grow weary in longing for his wayward son.

The son rounded the corner and the house came into view. But what was this? A man running down the hill in his direction. You could see by the gait he was not a young man, but it was unheard of in his culture for an older man to run. It was undignified, but it seemed this man cared nothing about cultural boundaries. As he neared him, his heart leapt. It was his father. No way to avoid him now, no way to understand what he was doing either.

‘Father, forgive me.’ He had gone over the prepared speech in his mind on the road. ‘I am no longer worthy to even be called your son.’

‘What?! Every day I have waited. I have longed for this moment. Come let us celebrate!’

‘But Father, I can’t just walk back into your presence.’

‘Son, I have never stopped loving you, I have forgiven you and I am willing to reinstate you. You are my son and I never stopped being your father. Welcome home.’

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