‘I was wrong about you, son’. Can you believe that? He was wrong about me? He must be mistaken. Had he forgotten his sour stench, seeping from every orifice like a prison break? Burning my eyes in whiskey as the word ’sissy’ sprayed through his teeth. Or wrapping his dress-belt around his callused palm and extending his arm in hopes to extract some closeted masculinity, thrash after thrash?
You see, he was never wrong about me. I was a sissy. And despite poisonous baptisms and leather exorcisms, I still am. But at that instant, when I tightened my grip around the youthful, gasping throat, perspiring from fear of losing a life still not lived, I possessed the strength of God himself. Except I was God’s opposition, destroying simply to amplify my own. To become what he had always wanted. An able, strong son.
And with that final, kneeling clench, I looked up with burning red eyes, and paid respects to my father, for this is all in his honor. All in the name of self-improvement.