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tonight. in the midst of this battle.
I sat at the table with papa to my left sitting in his wheelchair.
I watched him do his magic as he glues Popsicle sticks together to create wonderful intricate works of art.
Fallowing his shaky hands up his bony arm to his grouchy face, my eyes travel through their own thoughts.
About every complicated wrinkle on his pale cheeks.
Did he earn them?
Or did they earn him?
Are they battle scars?
What kind of battles was he in through out his sixty-one years?
Was it anything quite like the one we're in now...?
Wondering what he's thinking, how he stays so strong in all this?
How he never shows not one sign of fear.
I wish I could be like that.
Everything is falling apart on us.
My parents are drowning into the ground.
And even though he is sitting on two wheels, he still holds all of us up.
Yelling at us with vulgar words, telling us to broaden our shoulders.
My nose begins to tingle and this time, I don't try to fight it because I know what's coming, and I'm not going to be able to stop it.
I don't like to cry in front of papa.
I hate it.
It's a pure sign of weakness.
It hurts him.
I think that I am the only one who sees that.
Which makes me cry more.
Trying to hide it,
I look away.
But he can see through most anybody with those stubborn eyes.
He places his trembling hand on mine and I look at him, even though we both know that we don't want this kind of eye contact.
"Oh Hun, don't cry."
And I spiel out,
"Believe me, I don't want to. But, it just comes."
He looks away.
I'm hurting papa.
Which hurts me?
I hate this.
He looks back at me.
"We'll get through this.
All we need to do, is stand on our two feet with a ball bat in our hands telling them to 'come on." and smiles his toothless smile.