RE­BEKAH REM­PEL

My Fa­ther’s Fa­ther

Room Magazine - - CONTENTS - RE­BEKAH REM­PEL

The day you al­most killed your son, your wife hauled you off his small body. He lay at the bot­tom of the stairs, the shape of your knuckle stamped into his tem­ple. You in­grained in him the re­flex to tug off his belt that day I broke the plate, to raise one hand— brown leather, buckle clink­ing, my breath squashed in the fist of my ribs. He let it fall into a coil on the floor, knelt and held me— one of the things he learned on his own.

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