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Across the Back

John T. Hitchner

My father cried out in his sleep.
His explanation: “Bad dreams.”
Young, I accepted that reason,
and pedaled to the playground,
shot hoops,
and wondered about tomorrow’s games.

Older, over a beer one night,
I asked my father the truth.
“Your grandfather’s razor strop,” he said.
“If I didn’t do my chores,
or said something out of line,
he let me have it across the back—
my hands, my legs.
Not just once, not just twice.

“I got out when it was time.
Enlisted, went to Korea.
I tried to put a machined-gun face
back together.
Forgotten war, hell...
Damn near froze to death.
I could take shit then,
took it for a long time.
That’s why I came down on you
all those times.”

“A long time ago,” I said.

“Too close,” he said,
and rubbed the backs of his hands,
the sound like nails drawn across stones.

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