There are times now when I imagine myself as an adult sitting there wrapped up in shame and hurt and he comes out and places his large hand on my back and tries to dam up the river with bricks. “Stop cryin’ now.” “No.” “You done cried enough now.” “I haven’t cried nearly enough.” Then I let go with everything I have, burying my face in my hands. I let slobber and snot fly. I squeeze my eyes shut tight in an attempt to drain myself of every single tear. And when I have exhausted every muscle in my body with the act of expulsion, I look up and turn to him. He is not there.
