Wounds are delicate. When you wake up after sustaining a wound the day before, it still feels tender even if you are better. At any moment it can sting if you move too much, the puss coming out and the flesh crying. That is what happened this morning, when my mother burst out shouting “don’t mention his name, that dirty bastard, that dirty dog, dirty dog!” as I was on the phone talking with my grandparents , her parents. She would come out of her room and take two steps into the corridor where I was seated and speak close to the ear piece “that dirty dog, dirty dog.”
I upset the wound by speaking about him saying “we were at the concert yesterday that my father organized.”
The household was roused – my little brother so annoyed by all of this, he shouted back, rebuking her like a prophet: “you are just shouting here, what can we do if you two don’t want to live together, people separate all the time….when he is here (was here) you are just quite but then behind the scenes…nonsense man!”
She conceded: “I’m sorry.” But he was not appeased, “next time I will also be noisy.”
He went into the bathroom and me and my mother into our respective rooms. Now the hallway was empty. The wound, but the wound, is still full of puss.
Prayer
She prayed “please God, punish him, the dirty dog, the bastard punish him.”
I look at the string of black beads of my rosary and I want to pray for all these times this has happened, this disruption of tranquility, when my brother was here and now. I want to pray in words, but I feel my heart has already said it all – the “groans that cannot be uttered, that the Spirit prays for us,” which is what
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