Flashback
4/22/70
(I have just finished breaking my arm
By riding the World War II paratrooper's bike
Given me by my Uncle Frank
Down a dirt slope that ended in a tree.)
Left hand holding handlebar,
Steering balky bike over bumpy pavement;
Ache in right arm secondary
To speculation over Mom's reaction.
Will she say
"I told you so,"
Or throw her arms around me
And go int that
"My poor baby"
bit
That always gives me a knot
In the pit of my gut? Or what?
Leaning bike against front porch steps.
Threading lock through rear wheel spokes
In one handed awkwardness.
Scaling steps.
Living room dark, drapes drawn.
"Mom."
No answer. Hearbeat heightened,
Nostrils flaring.
Is she gone? Has she
Deserted me when I need her most?
"Mom!"
Decibel level edging into panic.
Heart pumping faster. Chest heaving.
Nostrils sucking air, spewing wind.
"Out here, dear."
Coming from back porch, filtering through kitchen,
Muted by dining room. A million miles away.
Wetness streaking cheek,
Slithers of warmth.
Everything rainbow rimmed and gleaming.
Running red eyed onto back porch,
Colliding, knocking Mom to railing.
Left arm tight around her thigh,
Speech gone.
"My God, what is it?
What's the matter? Why
are you crying?"
Knealing beside me, nesting my head on her breast,
Smoothing my hair.
Sobs subsiding, voice returning.
"I broke
my arm."
Holding me at arms length,
Inspecting me. Clinical,
Detached.
"Can you move your fingers?"
Professional intonations wrapping me
In blanket of velvet security.
Sudden, spectacular calm
Gloving me. Fingers
Moving.
"Well, that's good.
Probably only a sprain.
Or a hairline fracture.
Nothing severe at any rate."
Drying my eyes
On housedress hem.
"Let's wash your face.
Then let the doctor take a look."
Ten feet tall and growing taller,
Mother mastering all.
Slightly wiser, vastly older.
Who will solve my problems now?
Words of My Father 
Jonathan (son #3) said,
12 April 2006 at 12:57 pm
In his final months, he described the bone pain from the metastisized cancer as like breaking his arm; only the pain was constant, unfading. I can’t imagine enduring such pain. In a calm moment one day, somewhat earlier, he had tearily declared that I should understand, he was not weak. He said that he had always had a high tolerance for pain, that I should not assume his pain was not that bad. It was for him excruciating. It was a constant struggle of dosage to numb his pain without numbing his mind. We crossed back and forth over that ever-shifting line, too little, too much.
I cannot undue my lack of comprehension then. It was simply unfathomable to me that one could live through such pain. Perhaps I did assume it could not have been that bad. Until he died, I’m not sure I realize just how bad it was.