January 26, 2016

“Mother went crazy in the midst of butchering the evening roast. She held the carving knife in one hand, the serving fork in the other. She made an elaborate pattern of crosshatches and breaks. The meat bled onto the plate and it was deep red blood that came pouring out. We all sat at the table—mother and father and sister and brother. We watched the meat bleed. It took us some time to realize the meat was still alive. It squirmed beneath mother’s knife. It bucked and attempted to throw her off. But mother did not react to the meat’s movements. She dug the knife in deeper. She twisted the knife one way, then the other. She opened the meat up so that the insides were exposed to the air. Mother spilled what was best to cook first.”

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