Lessons Learned

     Every year on my birthday, my Father would tell me a story. A tale of something he had accomplished by the time he was my age. Well, I call them tales because my Father loved to lie like he loved to drink. Uninhibited and with no sense of moderation.

     On my fourteenth birthday, after my daily beating, he stood over my prone body and slurred through another story.

     "Your generation is weak. Soft in the head and soft in heart. When I was your age, I killed a man who broke into our home." He paused to drain the remains of his ninth beer before chucking the bottle at me.  He missed, but I've been told it's the thought that counts.

     "He killed your Grammy and then your Grandad just as he finished unlocking the gun case. By the time I got home, he was rummaging through our china cabinet. I didn't hesitate to grab a gun and I shot that fucker twice in the back." He moved toward the Lazy-boy recliner and flopped down. 

     "I learned a valuable lesson that day. That robber was twice my age and had a gun to boot, but I wasn't scared. I didn't stand by and cry. We all bleed the same. Don't matter who you are, no one's invincible." With that sage advice passed on, he promptly passed out.

     Later that night, I stood outside the place I was raised and watched the flames devour everything within reach. I threw the empty gas can in our neighbors bushes and realized he was right. We all bleed the same and as my Father's learning right now, we all burn the same.