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Agitated, my
mother, the panic of a herded horse in her eyes, mouthed to Gran, "It's him and the door's locked." "Let Pauly go," and I'm pushed toward the rattling frame and a knob I could barely reach. I twisted it open and you were on me in a rush blunt fingered hands with bitten nails snatched me up into your chared aura, smokey smelling wool uniform rasped my cheeks and I screamed to be turned loose. Afterall, that was my first smell of you. Later I found out and I am grateful now for the beatings and especially for the humiliations. I would hate to have to struggle with missing you. |
Last Update: December, 2000
Web Page by Paul Kohl