What can YOU say in six sentences?
He is sitting on the edge of our overstuffed green sofa, leaning toward the coffee table and a bologna sandwich my mother has made, his face still wet from tears over lack of sleep, the frustration of working the night shift.
I am sitting high on the back of the green sofa, his head between my knees, my four year old hand guiding a dirty black comb through the oily brown silk of his hair.
He is sitting at the formica dinette with my fourteen year old brother, a report card between them, then he slowly raises his thick fist, rests the knuckles lightly on my brother's jawline, like a kiss, then he knocks him to the floor.
He has found me hiding from him in the detached wooden garage, my body tucked behind the overturned green sofa discarded weeks before; he picks me up, a silent apology for screaming, for his rage bombs, as my skinny legs wrap around his upper body, my arms around his neck in this, our only connecting moment.
He is walking slowly over yellowed park grass, gliding beneath a solid canopy of pecan trees, no hurry or facial expression, as I lay belly down, sure I'm dying, breath knocked out from a fall.
He walks through the front door and over my pink sleeping bag at 4 am, a long line of fresh purple stitches on his scalp, a shot gun left in the station wagon, the butt tinged with another man's blood.