At 13, 14, 15, 16, I was so angry at my father. I remember screaming fights with him. My anger hurled out of me, electric, anguished. I didn’t like what he said, did, didn’t do. He didn’t like what I said, did, didn’t do. I remember breaking things. I slammed something- I think it was my bicycle though why my bicycle would be inside I don’t know- into some piece of furniture we had in the narrow foyer that connected the small apartment’s two front rooms to its two back rooms. The bicycle handle hit the glass and the glass shattered. I remember kicking on the screen door so hard the metal folded in, ruined. I remember telling him that if he died right then I would spit on his body. He said something dismissive in return. People said I looked like him. That made it worse. Thinking about that anger now, there’s some part of that 13-year-old I miss. The intensity, maybe, along with the hope that, somehow, the anger would turn out to be productive. He passed away eleven years ago. The photo was taken in West Virginia or Tennessee. I came upon the odd construction and wondered about its purpose, even as I found grace there.
RSS Feed