i would watch my parents unfurl like blossoms but he stained the ground he walked on with thick black ink where we would leave footprints across tiles she broke her back over. and when he shouted it was like a mangy old tiger whose teeth were sore but still sharp and my little brother would pick at his fur and my father would settle around us. fearsome, grueling, but ever always cooed by the fragility of my mother’s delicate hand.