Apathy

Father found it on Good Friday.  Or perhaps it found him?  He claimed it fell like a meteor from Heaven, beak first, and nearly into the dog dozing in the tall grass past the rusted-out Ford.  The square shape of its tail caught the wind, and the ruddy feathers were almost wistful as they rustled.  We situated the hawk on a low bough of the oldest apple tree in the orchard.  It quietly stood guard for four months, its amber button eyes rotting as the fragile blooms gave way to sturdy fruit.  Father had wanted to take him down and bury him, but I stolidly refused him.  Stubborn, he’d muttered, even as my intransigence forced a begrudging smile.

I don’t know how to care anymore.  My father had warned me at a young age, at one of those painfully new sensations that an adolescent must endure: You can’t take rejection so seriously.  It’s not a refutation of your innate, personal worth.  The only person in any position to deny or deem your own value is you.  And don’t retreat into apathy, he told me.  Don’t.  Be angry, if you must.  At least that is active.  He sighed and spat into the spittoon, the wet wad rewarded with a sharp ping.  Just remember, please.  Remember that apathy is the first resort of the cowardly and the last resort of the heartbroken.

I’ve that awful feeling that the joke’s on me, but I fail to see the punchline.