i am the executed and the executioner
My mom told me to throw away my scissors so the garbage man could know the joy of a slice in the absence of her happiness.
That was selfish of her, for she knew pain and was callused to it, subconsciously passing it on to whomever she could.
The pain of stark pink tenderness was new to the garbage man but a tired lullaby to my mother.
If my mother was the pained my father was the sick lullaby hushing her lips to sleep every night.
Now, years later I will probably tell my kids to keep their scissors and sharpen the blade. For the garbage man has a pair of scissors too.