Two for

“I donna kno why you go out wit ignorant country fuckas everytime.” My father, Puna bred, Vietnam vet, keeps spewing like Kilauea volcano.
I hold the cell phone to my ear, while ashy tears run down my face. My cold fingers comfort the purple island on my cheek.  

I'm six again, speechless. My father's words always hit hard, like his fists.

I feel like the same little girl even though its twenty years later, but this time, lava is running through my veins.

“WELL, HE'S JUS LIKE YOU, DAD.” For once, there is silence and I feel grown up.

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