No promise can break in a life of promise.
I knew my father like the back of his hand.
The back of his hand, the front of his hand, his palm threshed my leg in wild swipes. He was possessed by his own inadequacy. His short temper and busted ambition turned him to barely-held frenzy, but eyes betrayed his fear. Nobody knew in the moment, least of all him, whether it was fear of who he was or how far he could go. Something inside of him wanted me to feel it too.
