And Time Passes

On this day the tides of violence turn.

Photo by Engin Akyurt on Unsplash

Your hand pulling back, slow-motion fast, I know it will strike in an instant. Then the smack sound and the sting. It’s always the same.

I think of a photo in the family album, a mother, sweat glistening on her face, hair limp, gazing at the little alien thing that had come from her. The mother’s eyes are tired-blue but soft, she kisses the…