August 28, 2002
My father once struck my brother with a stick. Not the ones we cracked, whereupon they’d snap when they reached our legs. A whole stick. It’s abuse now; it was abuse then. Pride restrained the sounds of all but falling tears from my brother. The resulting bruises lingered longer than the initial hate. My father hobbles now, needing a cane he doesn’t use. His legs act up nowadays -- twisted ankle here, sore calf there; the frailty of his legs a fitting judgment against past actions. Maybe a reaction to irony prevents him from using a cane, another whole stick.