Burning my hand while removing our bagels from the broiler, I hear a voice.
“BECAUSE THERE’S NO GOD DAMN ROOM!”
And I recognize that voice.
That voice is not my own.
It’s deep and fearful.
Hoarse and irrational.
It is the voice of an angry man.
It is the voice of my father.
Then there is silence.
A long insecure silence.
A fearful silence.
And I recognize that silence.
I have been on the receiving end, and that is a terrible place to be.
Catching myself in the act I quickly apologize.
Only now it is my voice.
It is mild and tame.
Concerned and rational.
It is the voice of a scared child.
It is the voice of a worried man.
And in my mind I’m thinking, please believe me.
Please for the love of all that is holy.
Believe me. Believe me. Believe me.
Because what I meant to say – while burning my hand and channeling the blame to whomever(the loved) was in firing range – was, “because I’m the idiot who didn’t think twice before touching a hot pan.”
It’s my fault.
And now I’ve got the scar to prove it.
Through outwardly and publicly expressing concern and or contempt for one’s actions, said party, will reject the path of his predecessor in order to lead a gentle existence.
It’s a working hypothesis.