I remember an afternoon with my father, who had offered to fix and replace our rusted out mailbox at the bottom of the front yard.  He couldn’t get the final screw out of the brick retaining wall into which the mailbox had been fastened, and so he twisted and tore at the mailbox until the rusted screw snapped.  A thin stream of bright red blood appeared and ran from a cut on his sun-stained forearm, which he ignored, against my protest.

-19 October 2016

This post is part of the I Remember series.