“Daddy!  Leave her alone!”  The words strangle out, thrust forward, uncontrollably, like the invasive, bitter cress weed infecting the gardens at Nanny’s.  My screams join my sisters’ as my begging pulls tight, like a knotted cord, choking me.  At nine years old, I try to protect Mom.          

Mom had grabbed the butcher knife, silvery gleam shimmering in her fist as she ran ’round the kitchen table, following Daddy as he suddenly turned, swaggering unsteadily away at the sight of the knife.  Mom’s scowling face is madder than the buzzing hornets in a nest that I jab at with a stick.  Blue ribbons on her untied apron swing wildly.  Around her neck, a “Hail Mary, pray for us sinners” medallion crazily flips.            

The knife, used to trim blood-red roasts for Sunday dinners, is an attack tactic in this war.  She uses the weapon, aims to end the fight of belittling stabs with his drunk hands that pull her close.  She uses it to protect my sisters and me.