In the parental fights
my mother always growled
how my father would just give up
rather than stand his ground.
“Fine, you’re right,” he’d say, and close up.
She’d want to argue.
He’d want to end it.

Their fights would end
but not with peace.

I would take after my mother
looking for fights in all the right places
the wrong places
insane spaces where no one said a word.
These are arguments, mostly,
but in childhood days, fists got thrown.
I just liked to disagree.

Time wears on
and I still like to advocate for the devil
– because he has many good points –
and argue for the sake of it.
I’ve grown to give up easily.
It just seems the path of least resistance.

In all these years,
I seem to have floated to my father’s side.