father_and_son kerry they say you are measured, patient, unflappable, and it's true; i often don’t know if you’re frightened or hurt until much later. only one time i saw you break down-- your dad came to visit. he only appeared when it was convenient for him. i’d never met him before. i’m going to make you pasta like you’ve never had, he said, and we followed him around kroger red pepper flakes and angel hair, shredded parmesan and baby clams in a can, white wine for cooking that night the three of us stood in your bare bones kitchen relishing the smell of garlic and tomatoes simmering in wine, we ate with our plates on our knees in your studio apartment, a crusty baguette and wine bottle arranged on the coffee table, cozy, warm, comfortable. but it didn’t take long before things turned sour, political, and it doesn’t scare you but i think it scared him. who is this man my son, he should have stayed in jersey voices steadily rising: kerry is uncomfortable, let’s stop. no, she’s okay. are you? everything’s fine, we’re just talking. i got up and took my plate to the kitchen and that’s when the real action began. you finally said this was your home, these were your rules (and you were right) and he didn’t like that. i was in the doorway when he flipped the coffee table and shoved you down onto the loveseat. at that point i had never witnessed this kind of violence in person, i suppose i’m lucky. i didn’t think, i just ran into the bathroom and locked the door and sat totally still like a rabbit with my heart beating so hard and so fast i could have choked on it all this yelling and then the slamming of a door you were tapping on the door: come out, are you okay? he’s gone. but what about you, are you okay? yes, you assured me, just pissed, rattled. but moments later when i was throwing out all the uneaten food, so much of it and all ruined, i heard you caught a glimpse of you through the half opened bathroom door. you were sitting on the side of the tub with one palm to your cheek, fingers spread wide, the other hand holding the phone-- mama mama it frightened me to see you like that, a hurt boy. i know him better now; he brings biscotti and pignoli, my favorite, but when i look at him i still see this violence behind his smile (and i’ve had better pasta, before and since) 211116 what's it to you? who go blather from