It set my hair on end!

Why can’t he remember
that I am a semi-invalid
when it comes to lifting?
By now he should know
that my back muscles
cry out in pain
when I lift batteries
from a car.

Did I scowl?
Raise my eyebrows?
Ball my fists?
Come one step closer?

A quick-witted wife,
– oh, thank the Lord
for quick-witted wives –
put her hand on my arm.
“Sssssssssh,”
she said to me,
and to her son,
“Would it be
too heavy for you?”

He looked at her
rather endearingly,
as sons look at mothers
when childhood
is not questioned
anymore.

In no time flat
the bolts were off
and carefully
he lifted the battery out.
But through the years
batteries get grimy,
and even gravity
may have played a role
when the cube
slipped from his hands.
Exactly half an inch
from his right big toe
it died a second death.

Like the father I used to be
I should have become angry then,
but I didn’t.

Was it that the cube
hadn’t smashed his big toe?
Was it that his mother
still had her hand on my arm?
Certainly . . .
but I’ll be brutally honest!
Simultaneously . . .
A wave of utter forlornness
forged itself
from the depth of my
astounded being:
Here goes
another
sixty dollars!