by Suzanne Baran
My grandfather wasn't afraid to dirty his hands in the dirtiest ways. His fingers always gripped some weapon: rifles and machetes during his WWII tour, knives and cleavers at his store, and a stick at home. Even his hand was a weapon. His voice chopped, mashed, and dissected the people he loved. If he delivered praise, one loving word would slice through the scars of preceding ones. My mother endured past pain but clings to current acclaim as an addict clutches a crack pipe.
Suzanne Baran, a former financial journalist, is a content writer / programmer for Yahoo’s front page. She reviews music & films for The Big Takeover, and is the author of The Illustrator.