Nonsense

violence softens.

there are snapshots of mom’s boxing matches on the upper left side of the memory closet. every few years i take them down, dust off the box and ruminate over the photos.

she was a bully to those who couldn’t fight back, especially her children, but she did not fight the men who kicked and punched her without restraint. it was normal to scream in the midst of the fighting, for my voice to become hoarse and for my body to crumple to the floor in a state of helpless surrender. i am next to her in the photos holding her while she bleeds and cries, waiting for him, one of those hims to take the next round of rage out on me, to take me to the room and take advantage of the fact that no more fight was left in my bones.

after a few decades there’s no more sadness when looking at those images. it’s been replaced by a longing to be better than yesterday, a guiding light for times when the fight leaves my bones because i see the mother that took sixty years to stand up for herself and the girl become a woman refusing to go quietly into the night.

violence hardens, hurts and brings havoc but for some it can lead to success, stability and softness.