3 Dad’s fingers

Two year old me and Dad, in a row boat Maine 1944. Photo by Jean H. Bein

Walking, holding one of his fingers;

I liked to try out different fingers,

Seeing which one fit best in my little hand.

He taught me to clean my butt with my left hand.

Mom wrecked the car on the icy road when I was four.

When we finally got home, mom told him what happened,

He threw his book right through the top of the card table.

Somehow mom kept that broken card table around for years,

a reminder of my father’s pique of anger.