Everyone is supposed to do the thing they’re good at doing, whether two-part harmony, or rage.
Let me be the angry one. I’m angry enough for the both of us. I’m good at it. I’ve been angry since I was born the month Jimmy Dean sang Big Bad John all the way to number one.
The kitchen floor—ours is made of maple barn siding—that is not how to break a jar of honey. Real anger is smashing it on the ceramic counter beside the sink where we washed your hair when your left arm was mangled somersaulting with your horse.
It never would have happened if you hadn’t named him Husband.
Hungry for love? Lots of bitter suck apples on this old tree. If you chew them slow enough the bruised ones turn to hard cider when you pout.
The secret to life is lettuce and propane. Why not make a salad and listen to Simon and Garfunkel while I go outside and fire up the anger?
Put down that gun, give me the knife. Your mother is dead. Your father is dead. Nothing to be done about that. But if you want the world to suffer as much as you then I’m your man. Just say the word and I’ll crash that truck into the boy who pissed you off when you were eleven.
That fucking jar of honey…You call that anger? My grandmother can rage better than that with one hand tied behind her back and sick, diabetic feet that bleed when you look at them. Grandma Betty is nearing a hundred—it’s hard to kill a prick, her words.
I know anger is your right, but so is making do. Life is a mess, but it’s a lovely one. The floor never tasted so good.