Broken Wing

Over forty years ago you broke my thumb somewhere between my bed and the porcelain tub, nicked and scarred and filled with ice water, on a cold March day wind howling as you dragged me writhing and flailing and dumped me in holding me down with your dark fury. Moments before I had dared to defy - dared to reveal my anguish as you slammed the door on my attempted flight, wing caught and broken. You broke my thumb and I learned to silence my lamentation.