His mother always said you solved more problems with words than with fists. But his was not a peaceful nature, and after years of unanswered abuses, he was unwilling to sit by and do nothing.

The bomb exploded on the night of May 1st, 1997. One person was killed, another injured. Both security guards.

His lawyer would argue that the deaths were tragic accidents, that he’d thought the building would be empty. The truth was he hadn’t cared.

“Mom hated butterflies. They made her sneeze.”

Jason shrugged. “All the more reason she’ll come back as one. Karma.”

“What do I say to her? In two weeks you’ll die and I’ll feel godawful losing you all over again?”

“You’ll know what to say,” Jason smiled.

“I knew we’d find a Jew here. Where are the others?”

Anita held her head high. “There are no others. Only me.”

“Take her.”

Amira’s body trembled as she listened to the footsteps and voices above.

“No, I won’t let you take me,” Anita struggled to break free and was shot. She dropped to the floor and whispered her daughter’s name.

That old clink, so familiar. It’s a constant sound since Dad took off, piercing Nick’s twelve-year old ears.

Cue Mother’s laughter, cackling. Cracked.

He can’t tell Mother what it means to see tenderness replaced by laughter. Rage. Bills go unpaid, furniture disappears. But night after night, bottles take over. Wine, vodka. Beer.

One night, Nick sneaks downstairs, removes each bottle with methodical coldness. Hurls each one at the floor.

He shatters again and again, surveys the ruins.

“Baked chicken, boiled potatoes, and string beans. Really, Mom?”

“You know the doctor wants you to eat healthy,” she answered, filling his dish.

Sam swallowed a piece of chicken and it was like a rock had hit his stomach. He missed the crispy taste of fried, juicy white meat.

“String bean pie for dessert,” he chuckled and noticed a hair on his dish.

Sam removed his hat and a clump of his hair fell on the table.

“Does this mean the radiation is working?”

Nancy calls me Saint Nick, says I’m too giving. Nicknames me dummkopf when I trip.

I love her energy, when she jokes about my clothing or love of Debussy. She’s an Elvis-loving newspaperwoman.

Yet, the banter lacks that natural rhythm, that give-and-take. We didn’t grow up playing or fighting together. But Nancy says age is arbitrary.

I wonder if she feels self-consciousness. Especially when she calls me little brother, accentuating the words.

I just banter. Call her sis. Joke that she’s my secret mother.

“Our sacred trees are gone,” he continued. “Our land is on fire; our mother is on fire.”

“She is hotter every year. More fires burn this year than ever,” a Ngungawal elder said. “We must appease our mother. We have perpetual grief, but the time is to focus on the mother, not us.”

Heads nodded.

You won’t go back to that school. I’ll deal with that asshole father.

She smells of lavender perfume and sweat. Not like Dad with his Old Spice, calculated aroma, who mocks Mother. Arranges my future with Headmaster Edgar. Harvard, law.

Men bang at the doors. Buzzwords waft into my musky space: “Custody arrangement,” “Legal orders.”

Fuck off. Mother’s words hold firmness, edge.

Footsteps draw near, unpleasant pounding.

My mother tells them I’m her son. I’m someone who needs love.

I absorb that word, so foreign, while she spars, words rising.

His mother, divorced, comes up with an alternative solution and sits Timothy on her lap. “Honey, there’s another way we could give you a similar present. Each month we can sponsor a child.”

Timothy tilts his head. “What does that mean, Mommy?”

“Well, each month we’ll send money to help the boy get food, education, and whatever he needs. Some children in other countries can’t afford these things and need help.”

Timothy’s face lit up the room with his radiant smile. “I like that, Mommy.”