By John Riley
“Tilt back your nose,” my uncle said. Blood ran in two streams across my upper lip and slopped down both sides of my mouth. “You’re always staring at the ground. That’s probably why the punk popped you.” His lips were squeezed tight. He had been in two wars and one prison. When he died, his friend Alejandro knelt by the casket. His shiny tears fell to the floor. My mother stared at him. Her lips pressed so tightly together they made a single line. Then she looked at me and said, “It’s good he’s dead. His life never made any sense.”
Some people fight back and some turn the other cheek. John, you write convincingly and elegantly in favor of not allowing both cheeks to be slapped. I love it.
Heads up, earn a mouthful of rain and lead a forgettable life. Still, you will be remembered by someone.