Tuesday Night Hockey

I have always known two versions of my father: #1- Pleated pants belted just under the stomach scar from his motorcycle accident as a teenager, polo shirt tucked in, hair wet in an attempt to slick it back, glasses. #2 – Corona tank top, some form of cartoon character pants with an assortment of holes and/or paint splatters, white grass-stained Nikes, baseball cap.

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Broken

A piece of pot roast, drenched in the brown crock-pot gravy and mushrooms, rests in a lukewarm pile on my sister’s abandoned dish. The forks of my father, mother, and I scrape nosily against porcelain plates. This is the only sound.

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What I’ve Learned From My Father’s Tears

It breaks me to watch my father cry. Men crying has a way of making me feel tender, making me feel just as vulnerable and afraid. But watching him, I can not associate crying with weakness. He cries because he is strong; because he is so strong that only some things can break him. Broken, yet not weak.

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