From the ruler.
From the belt.
From the spatula.
From the rolling pin.
From the terror.
From the fear.
Or do they grow into adults.
Who cower in the corner.
Or yell till they reach the end.
Who slam the door, not to win, but to shield.
Or taunt and poke at every turn.
Who can’t control their raging bodies.
We learn different methods of coping.
Different methods of winning.
As if this senselessness is the only way to sail thru.
The thing is.
How much are we changing.
And how much are we passing on?
I am not perfect. Trust me. I am NOT.
For Aru. I seem to want to be. My own anger, moodiness and rage, frightens me. I don’t know why violence is such a massive thing for me. Perhaps this life. Perhaps past lives.
To raise a man who doesn’t hit his wife, will be a magical thing for me. We’ve got a long way to go. And if this is one thing I can do to help make it happen, manage myself, work with my husband, his father. Then I will do it, the best way I can, the best way I know how.