Ray Bradbury's Revenge

Ray Bradbury just hit me in the face.

He didn't mean to, I'm sure.

Just trying to make a living...

But, twelve years old and drunk on dandelion hooch,

he balled his fist around a summer awareness and set it to me, right in the nose

(not broken, I know, but throbbing with blood).

I stumbled back, looking at this kid, a whole four years younger than I.

Where did he get the gall to do that to me?

I had no contentment to hurl back at him,

no selfless compassion to harden my right cross.

Beat by a kid.

Sucker punched by a moron, a naive little boy.

Do you think I cry because of that?

Because he hurt me, humiliated me?

I could care less.

He really didn't try to.

It was accidental.

This vibrant round face, full of the wonder of ignorance, makes me think back to how

I was twelve once upon a time.

And it catches in my throat.

He's too fat.

He's too preoccupied.

They look at him too much.

He's not sad enough to remind me of me.