Every blow fractures a little part of me and I lose just a little more of myself. I didn’t start out this way. When I was born I was the perfect baby. I know this because my mom told me I was perfect. She told me how when I cried at night she would nurse me and change me and I would go back to sleep in less than half an hour. She used to stand above my crib and watch me sleep for hours. It was her job to keep me safe and warm and fed and dry. She would tell me this as I fed her and changed her and kept her warm and safe and dry after she had her stroke.
That was a blow.
I was a good father. My wife
told me how much she appreciated everything I did for our children. The only
thing I couldn’t do for the babies was nurse them. I was jealous of the attachment
my wife had to the babies as they latched on to her nipples and sucked the nourishment
from her body. I knew I didn’t love my children any more or less than she did,
but I used to watch her feed them and gently sing to them as they fussed and
fought sleep. After she nursed them she would hand them to me and I would
change them and make sure they were warm and dry and safe and tucked into bed.
Twin girls. Born too soon. I made sure their coffins were comfortable and warm
and safe and dry.
No parents should ever have
to bury their child.
And to bury two.
That was a one-two punch.
Another blow.
A year later. Cancer. I
stayed by her side, even when the nurses told me I could leave. I buried her
babies. I could bury her.
Another blow.
The bills came. I couldn’t pay.
Bankruptcy. I lost my job. I tried. I was a veteran. I should have had
preference. Nobody prefers a middle-aged man with no skills, no training.
Another blow. And the blows
kept coming.
I don’t even talk about the
war. The blood. The mangled bodies. Do you really think its glorious and brave?
Yeah, I ran towards the big bangs and loud explosions when everyone else was
running away because that’s what I was told to do. Every generation has been
damaged by some form of war. Every mother’s son has had to confront the bullet
that was meant for him. And now we are sending our daughters to war, too. Would
I have been able to send my precious daughters to face the horrors still burned
into my brain?
Get down, stay down.
Another blow
You can’t keep a house if you
have no money. You can’t get a job if you don’t have a house. You can’t go to
school. You can’t learn. All you can do is give up.
Another blow.
Stay where you are. There’s
nothing here for you.
Another blow.
Don’t you see? I can’t even
feel the blows from your boots as you kick me and tell me to stay down. I no
longer feel the pain.
Another blow.
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