“Put your arms up!
Keep your fists tight.”
The guy that was fucking my mother
gave me instructions on how to fight.
It wasn’t going to come from my father.
We had less time together
and it wasn’t his bag, anyway.

I’d just gotten beaten up after school.
A kid who I’d gotten along fine with
had started kicking the wagon I was carrying,
so I dropped it and tried to put him in a headlock
– only he got into a boxer’s stance and kept his distance,
punching me repeatedly.
Eventually, I grew tired, picked up the wagon
and schlumped home.

Vaughn saw the need and stepped in.
When I got to the house, after I cleaned myself up,
Vaughn took me out again, so he could show me a few moves.
I didn’t become a fighter or anything, but I was better prepared
for fists than I’d been before that day.
That kid wouldn’t find me so easy to hit.
“Thanks, Vaughn, I love you.”

I don’t know why it slipped out so easily
or why I refused to say it ever again.