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Show 181 Snapshot: Bart Simpson and Carma y Our Youngest Daughter Today is the day we get back at the disease. Anger and resentment have torched our walls like a blazing fire to a field. Today is no different. The uncounted scars that the fire leaves when it, uninvited, storms into our lives, feel more like open wounds every time a noise strikes my mom like a dart to a bull's eye. This fire has a name like many hurricanes do, I've decided; I shall call it Carma. Medically known as stiff-man syndrome. I hate the name "Carma." Today we decide to be in charge for a change. As my dad shapes a large piece of perfectly angled wood, I notice how much it finally resembles the T.V. superstar, Bart Simpson. I chuckle to myself while listening to the chain saw scream, watching wood chips fly at the ground like daggers. It must know what's coming next. We all take our brown cartons, rough like sand paper, full of untouched eggs, one whole carton in each of our hands. As I wind my arm back, egg in hand, like a pitcher on the mound ready to throw a strike, I think how similar this might be to the first silver cone-headed bullet shot in a battle. We were about to break the silence in this war against the disease. My brain finally focuses on reality as I watch the first egg release out of my grasp and splatter against Bart's left, once colorless, hair spike. Surprised at how strong my 4th grader arm is, I gawk at the gleaming yellow center oozing from every pore. I am anxious to throw the next. |