CLOSE MY EYES
It took twelve cops to pull my brother and father apart. The big bodies of men, allentangled like a swirling¹ hurricane, crashed loudly into the living room. Within an instant,familiar things were no longer in my sight—no windows, no floor, no furniture, and nolight. All I could see was a chaotic² mass of body parts in motion: dark pants and strongarms bursting out of dark sleeves, enormous hands grabbing, fists punching, limbs tangledtogether and tearing away, heavy, polished black shoes scuffling and stomping³. Therewere quick flashes of shiny things: buttons, badges, and guns. At least a dozen pistolhandles, stiff and sticking out of dull leather holsters, a few cradled in palms and thumbs,sat on wide black belts around broad hips⁴. Chaos⁵ filled the air with the sounds of cursing,grunting, and howling. The entire house seemed to be shaking. And somewhere in the eyeof this storm were the two most important male figures in my life, destroying each other.
I always thought of my brother’s anger as weather — powerful, destructive, andunpredictable. I don’t know if it was a singular act or an ongoing⁶ illness that made him sovolatile, but it was all I had ever known.
I was a little girl with very few memories of a big brother who protected me. Moreoften, I felt I had to protect myself from him, and sometimes I would find myselfprotecting my mother from him too.
This particular fight with our father had escalated⁷ more quickly than most, however. Ashouting match became a tornado⁸ of fists in what seemed like a matter of seconds, bangingthrough the room, knocking things over, and leaving havoc⁹ in its wake. In that moment,the rage between my father and brother was so forceful that no one person could havestopped it. No one would have dared.

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