[There was the way his mother]
There was the way his mother called him baby-faced that made me defensive. His father would
tease his lacking jaw. He’d say a jaw actually runs the length of a man’s body, from face to
shoulders, to torso, to fists, to feet. A jawless man could not kiss nor carry nor hit nor kick, just
roll and rest like the jawless babies he would never make. Light can change a face, so when the
shadow of this tease was cast, a sharpness rose but his father would laugh and pat the angles out
of his son. I tried to learn this touch too, this patting of the back that suggested fury could be
rocked down. It goes like this: You get them between the shoulder blades, firmly, bravely, like
knocking a grape out of a choking infant and with just as much urgency. I never saw what his
parents said they saw. No baby in his features; no softness to settle, even if laid as long as
wanted right against one’s chest.
