The family is to gather for his 87th: he who was once a man and then twice a child.
My feet refuse to move: the thought of attending is unbearable.
So many decades ago:
we incurred a severe debt of the most brutal punishment simply for misspelling a word on a quiz;
I can still see her lying there, on the floor, with his foot striking her face, the blood spilling onto the floor;
I can still hear the clenched fist striking the jaw of my younger simply because he was less gifted than I;
I can still feel the fear of being in his presence in church, in the boat fishing, at the dinner table where only deathly silence reigned;
my mind still reels at the memory if him tearing my younger brother from the high chair at age two simply because he failed to hold the fork according to mandate;
I can still feel the pain at his thundering his opinion without allowing others to differ;
one beaten until he could not stand; another beaten near to unconsciousness; unable to either sit or concentrate at school because of the damage done by solid oak; her back broken in a fit of hatred of one who was lesser;
absent at the baseball games; absent at the swim meets; absent.
And now they want to celebrate possibly his last birthday.
I am paralysed with the memories.
Nathan A. Busch