Remember once when I was ten, when my mother stood in her best pearl white blouse at the far end of the kitchen table.

Her voice catching gasps, barely able to get her words out past her tear filled sobs.

"How could you? How could you do that to...me? How...could...you?"

My father, all 6'4'' and 220 lbs. of him, housed by the dining room door frame, hung his head in shame.

No words to offer comfort.

I remember staring down at my plate as did my two sisters. Closing my eyes to sound of her tears, wishing I knew what to do, wishing myself invisible, wishing that my legs would stop shaking so great the desire to run away.

I remember ever so slowly shaking my head. Something's wrong here. Something's very wrong here and I don't want to see or hear it or be around it ever again.

Jimmy, haven't thought of that sorry scene for some time now.

Maybe it's long overdue.

Thanks.