text: "Well I'm drunk. The multiples of you and the shovel confirm it." I staggered a few steps and then asked in a bemused tone, "and why the hell is this very flat lawn so extremely uneven?" "It's the booze you need to stop." "Don't you knock booze, Mother at least it brings relief." That was obnoxious--and rather ironic considering the resulting hangover--but I was mourning and therefore allowed. "It can also makes people violent. That you know full well. You think you're the only one hurting?" "He tried to kill me, Mother!" "He's still your father." "So everyone keeps telling me," I replied sarcastically. "He's always been there for you ..." "Yeah and so is the Captain, for only $14.99 he helps me forget, but you want too much. How can I forgive that man?" "He's your father," she stated matter-of-factly like there could be no other logical alternative. I didn't agree. "I have no father." "He took care of you. He raised you, clothed you and fed you. There was a roof over your head because of him. Many fathers don't even bother after they've zipped up their pants." "And he also never taught me how to throw a ball or ride a bike. The only thing I can throw is a fit, Mother. Ever seen me on a bike? No? That's because I never learnt to ride. The one thing I could do well was to run in a straight line. Imagine that! Running away was the only thing I was good at." "You were running to the finish line, a goal." "Yes and the goal was to get away from my daddy." "You're being dramatic." The force behind the words was made meaningless by her downcast eyes. "Dad was busy, I get it. He was busy providing for his family, but kids need more than just a warm meal." "It does make life easier," she replied with a smile. I didn't reciprocate, still there was truth in her words. A silence hung uncomfortably between us before mother continued, "I didn't teach you either. I worked as well ..." "No but you taught me how to feel, to love, to care. I'll never forget that." We digested the words awhile. 'These damned silences are prevalent tonight,' I thought. 'Must be something in the air, or my drink.' I checked the glass for some hidden revelation. "Do you think I am a good mother?" "The best," I confirmed and then cried. To hell with it, I sobbed. "You also fed me, clothed me and gave me a place to sleep, but you taught me how to be human. When he was indifferent you were the one who tried to understand your child." "Your father is a product of his time." "Don't defend him! Growing up in the sixties does not give him the right to act like a bastard." "No, it doesn't but it does make him human. We all have our faults." "Murderers have plenty don't they?" I retorted venomously. "He's not a murderer." "Not convicted anyway but I could've been a murder victim. Now I'm only a victim of assault but If I hadn't stopped him I would've been dead. Why is it that an attempt at murder isn't seen as bad as murder itself, huh? If I hadn't put my finger in his eye I wouldn't be here now. How could that be better than actually killing someone? 'That's okay,' the court seems to say. 'You're still breathing aren't you? There's no real harm in only attempting to kill someone.' Never mind that someone actually tried to take your life! And there's the real rub, he's not even being punished. I'm the victim but got charged with assault by my own father!" "I know I'm sorry. Maybe had we gone to the police sooner ..." "And whose fault is that?" I cut her off. "All of you, my aunts, uncles, all my elders and even my mother," I pointed at her, "told me: 'he's your father. You can't do that.'" There was another pause. I needed the words to set in. "And then the wounds healed. It all became hearsay, and his brother! They both lied. Your husband lied to save his own skin. His brother wasn't even there but suddenly I was the ungrateful son, the layabout who assaulted his oh-so-saintly father. That supposed Christian lied through his teeth and praised his Lord with that same forked tongue." I squarely looked at my mother as I flung the accusations, but she didn't meet my gaze. "I'll never forget how he looked at me. The malice edged in his eyes that day at the police station. He would've killed me that day. That self-righteous martyr would've gladly ended me because I, a child, dared to pick on his brother. Why would you marry into that?" "He's my husband. I love him ..." "And I'm your son. You carried me, raised me and your husband tried to kill me just because I told him he's acting like a child. How's that justifiable mother? How?" I wanted to know. "Yes I disrespected him but I didn't do it for a laugh. He was drinking himself to death. Hurting you in the process. How are you still willing to put up with that?" "He'll change. He promised." "They always do, Mother. But you said it yourself he's a product of his time, a man, a real one supposedly. A man which was born right. A man who never shows his feelings and therefore doesn't understand how to resolve conflict without his fists. Yes things will be better for a while but you think he'll stay that way? Let's see what conventional wisdom has to say about this: you can't teach an old dog new tricks, right?" I asked. "Or what about the horse and water? You think he's going to drink? No Mother he won't change." "Everyone has issues with their parents," she defended. "What would you know of daddy issues? Your father was wonderful." "He wasn't perfect." "At least he could show love and had more than one feeling. Chronic grumpiness isn't fun to put up with!" She cried. My mother was close to breaking point, but she made a final sally. "He's my husband! Life changed him and me, all of us. Do you think we wanted this to happen? Do you think your father dreamed of folding his fingers around your throat?" "It was his knee, Mother." I corrected her disdainfully. "Fingers or knee, he didn't intend to kill you." "He also wasn't planning on stopping. Ever been strangled? Ever realized you're about to die?" I added forcefully. "No mother, intent is not important. He tried to kill me and you helped him to get away with it!" I was right but was it worth? My mother's knees struck the ground. I'd picked at the scabs and the foul puss, the truth, the resentment and hurt came pouring out. I'd hurt my mother. The truth hurts but seeing your mother sobbing on the floor doesn't make it easy and it certainly isn't pretty. It was painful. My heart ached and I wanted to embrace her but my stubborn head told me: 'you're the victim, not yet.' Instead I teetered to fill my glass trying hard to ignore the one woman I unequivocally loved. My indignation didn't last. It never could with my mother. Finally I told my logical self to shut up and I poured her a drink. It was a silly peace offering but she accepted it all the same. The true mark of a mother, a woman: to accept the tools in their lives unconditionally, even to their own detriment. She didn't drink but poured the rum little by little from the glass. A right waste but what did I care? I had a hole to dig. "What are you doing?" she asked after a while. "I thought you'd recognize a hole Mother, you live in one." "That's very mean." It was and I regretted it instantly. "I know," I said remorsefully, "that's why I'm here, to bury the meanness." "So why the hole?" she asked. Mother was always good at picking up on my regret. "That's where you put corpses right?" "You're going to bury your father?" she wanted to know with eyes wide. "No, I have no father. I'm digging the hole for our relationship." "Bit dramatic wouldn't you say?" She chuckled. "Still mind burying a few of his Hawaiian shirts while you're at it?" "Ha, ha! It's cathartic and I already have his precious records to dump inside." "Good, but it's also a bit much wouldn't you say? Why don't you just ignore him like a normal resentful adult?" "I'm trying to heal Mother, and besides that's the plan until I join him in hell." "Why can't you just forgive him?" "Let's ask dad to kneel on your throat and let's see how forgiving you'll be afterwards." There was no reply. "No Mother, our relationship is like this hole, empty. I'm done." "And what about me?" she demanded. "I'm in the middle. I hurt as well! I'm tired, so tired. I just want everything to go back to the way it was." Mother fell to the ground--it was becoming a habit now. I dropped the bottle and helped her up. I never was heartless enough to simply let her be in agony. She's my mother. I held her tight. She was right wasn't she? I didn't think of her. She too needed to deal with his. The betrayal of her husband and the subsequent hate of her son. My moist eyes noticed the heart she had edged in the ground. The one she made with the droplets of rum. "Ever asked why he did that?" she wanted to know as she wiped her tear-stained eyes. "Every damn day, Mother. And yes life wasn't easy for him either. That's why he drank and that's why he didn't like it when I told him he's acting like a child, because it was the truth." "And now you're drinking." "Like father like son, eh?" "That's not funny." "We have to laugh mother. What else am I supposed to do?" "We can try to understand." "I've done that! What have I been saying? I know why he did it. I know about his childhood, his perpetually pissed father. I know about work and how it depressed him to see others promoted above him. I know he grew up believing a man is all that and everything else needs to just shut or suffer a beating." "You're still his son," she reaffirmed tenaciously. "Why do you think I'm drinking? That's what I want to forget." "It's too late for that now, but this could've been avoided. Why did you lose your temper?" she persisted. "Because I was protecting you." The words were laced with emphasis. "The one person I truly love." There was no further exchange but the mood was heavy and needed alleviating. "Dad was helpful though. He was searching for my temper with me on the floor. 'Have, you, found, it, yet?' he seemed to say as he kept pushing his knee onto my throat." She laughed. "Only you could joke about this." "I'm trying to get over it. The jokes help." "You never really connected with him did you?" "About what, racism and how good the Cowboys will be this year? Yes, Mother I'm different, I'm like you. Is it so strange that your son turned out to be like his greatest role model? That I looked at my mother who always cared, even if it hurt, and then compared her to my Neanderthal of a father and found him wanting. Which do you think I decided was more venerable? I'm you, Mother. I looked at the world and realized that's who I'd like to emulate not my emotionally stunted father who believes shouting at the TV is a profound way of expressing yourself." She hugged me but she wasn't done. The decent ones never give up. "What about God?" "What of him?" "He'd like you to forgive him." "Really? Have you been having coffee with him behind my back?" "Must you be so facetious?" "Mother I fully respect your choice to believe in God. I know it keeps you going, gives you a reason to get up in the morning but please don't use those Jedi tricks on me. 'This is the father you have to forgive.' I waved my hand in front of her face the same way Sir Alec Guinness had done. She didn't much care for it or understand. I wiped her tears before saying, "Mother please understand this wasn't some whim. I didn't just wake up and say, 'today I'm burying my father.' I'll always be thankful to him for raising me, but I'm done. All I ask is that you try to respect it. You don't even have to understand just respect it, please." She wavered, opened her mouth but then simply nodded. "Okay," she said before taking the shovel, "let's fill this hole." We stood in silence as we dropped the records in the hole--and a few on my dad's most unfashionable, Hawaiian shirts. Nothing else was said as a buried my relationship with my father. I know she'll try to reunite us again someday, but I won't.