Some things would smash nicely

I borrowed a lock of my father's to chain up a bike. It turned out the lock was rusty, wouldn't open, and could not be turned by its key. I left my bike unlocked at Garfield and hoped. Luck was friendly that day - my bicycle received no jacking. However, between school and home, the key disappeared.

For the next few weeks questions regarding keys and loaned locks were dodged. This evening my dad confronted me about it.

I told him that I was sorry, explaining that the Masterlock was broken, and hoped for a mild response.

Instead he spirited away my weights, citing their constant underfootedness.

Now I know very well that I handled losing something entrusted to me wrongly. That aside, taking away a personal possession hit a special nerve. We've gotten along all year, I'm getting ready to leave permanently, and no longer expect my parents to be a policing element.

Buying a new lock would have been no problem, which only served to add to the sting.

Then some random exchange set the whole lot off. It's not really important what was said. What matters is that it was the last of too many annoyances, and it got to me like few things ever have.

I was angry.

Angry like a freshly woken nest of hornets. Angry like an avalanche waiting to bury some Bavarian village. Angry like the hulk.

You know that sensation of grief when something of great personal consequence is lost? I mean that cringing tug that goes from your forehead to your toes, and makes it feel as if there is no comforting cranny in existence that could remain hidden from the ache. I had that inescapable feeling but in shades of red.

I wanted to smash something that would make a releasing crunch, but decided against that course of action. A shouting match at home didn't seem so splendid either.

To get away, I picked up Pygmalion, put on my shoes, and started walking. I strolled until the microwave no longer seemed like it would have a nice arc to its fall. Then I sat down on the curb and started reading.

Two hours later a return trip gave time for reflection. I found nothing astounding in the experience, but once home, I wasn't mad anymore. Neither was my dad.

-Tim Wilder