would make
a pot of split pea soup, we'd
all roll our eyes
and sigh.
why, mom, why.
because your father likes it,
she'd say.
we'd scramble
for the stack of wonder
bread on the table,
pushing hard butter
across the slice, trying
to fill up.
there'd be a hambone
in the soup pot,
which apparently was how
my father liked it.
and which could
be used for a weapon
when he
didn't come home that
night.
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