The wrench old, rusty, brown
It was about the size of an adult’s forearm
(clinch fist included).
It was a magnificent tool intended originally
for work on aircraft, or boat screws of an over-sized nature.
But in my father’s hand the wrench was his scepter…
A scepter of power.
An intimidating disciplinary instrument
That produced hollow thuds upon impact
follow by unusually large knots, rivers of tears
The scepter could not be argued with
It lost childhood,
The time he took me to the hospital when my
pajamas caught on fire.
The time he left work early when I fell through
glass and needed stitches.
The time he taught me how to throw a curve ball.
I wondered was it my fault?
Something I did?
To make father beat his first kid.
Now, it is hard to focus.
Instead of an aged man sitting in his la-z-boy,
for me there is just a hole, a black void
Bellowing smoke from a pipe.
MG Hardie ©