It wasn’t the blood-drenched mattress,
or the brain matter splattered
on it. It wasn’t his solitary effort
to pull the gory thing out of the trailer
and into the bed of his truck and drive
five miles to the dump, heaving
the remains of his uncle’s pain
onto the heap.
It was his father, stiff with the news,
waiting for him at the door. It was
his father’s agitated face, the panic
bright and unblinking in his eyes. It was
knowing that his father could not do it –
could not brave one more image
of needless death,
of blood and blood and blood
Steady, point-blank understanding. Good work!
Thank you. It’s good to know that you got it!!
It is great that the father was not consumed–that tragedy did not beget another tragedy. Great…
The son became a man that day.
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