My father was a brawny simple man who developed diabetes in his forties.
For many years my mother excused his fits of rage on the disease.
Growing up we walked on egg-shells around him so as not to trigger the anger.
When it couldn’t be helped he always went for his belt drawer. He had them in all shapes and sizes. Some were made from crocodile hides, others were thick hunks of black and brown leather.
I still remember the fear and dread when he commanded us to stay put and await his return. My back, arms, chest, legs and face still recoil when I remember the flash of heat they sensed when the belt whipped the skin.
Once the rage subsided he paced away gruffly. Muttering, cursing, and perhaps looking for other opportunities to start up again.
My on-looking mother would then remind us of his diabetes.
