"You need to learn to swear," he told me.
"A Quaker like you, so controlled
--it's not healthy."
I wondered if he might be right.
I did feel choked up at times
by the undone dishes and frayed edges,
not to mention the major injustices of life.
Leaning into memory, I brought up
words from TV and novels, phrases
my grandfather had used when provoked.
I rehearsed them mentally,
avoiding the mirror.
A few weeks later,
something he said (I can't remember what),
--a twist of sarcasm, a patronizing hint--
and a voice whispered, "Now."
I looked straight at him
and with a keen and measured ferocity said,
"I just don't give a hell."
In the following silence, I realized
I hadn't quite brought it off.
Finally he said, "If you're going to swear,
at least do it right."
Warning: I'm practicing.
Next time I'll get it.
Mountains will quake.