Time Does Not Heal

A cousin of mine died a couple of days ago.  He was a year older than me.  Way closer to 50 than 40.

His life was nothing to be proud of.  A prison stint for abusing his girlfriend's children, never convicted of molesting another cousin or his own nieces -- we keep our secrets, this family of mine.  He died a wreck of a human being, a final heart attack after many.

I haven't seen him in three decades or more.  His siblings have fared no better in life: a sister with many children who drinks herself unconscious every day; a brother who is totally immersed in Fundamental Christianity, also with several children who are secluded from all contact except church-related; another brother who appears "normal," but what festers beneath?

What do I remember about this cousin?

I remember standing beside him, before his mother, as the woman grasped his arm and held a flame from a cigarette lighter to his hand.  I remember her telling me that she wished she could do it to me.  She obviously was afraid that my mother might object.  A ridiculous fear.  I remember... I remember knowing there was no one I could tell, no one who would stand for me, protect me, help me.  Certainly not my mother.

I don't remember him crying. 

I was three years old.  But I remember her face, her words. 

My mother, sister and I lived with these people during one of my mother's many "vacations" from her abusive husband.  So many bad things happened in that house, but this is seared into my memory, as clear 45 years later as if it had happened yesterday.  Seared with the flame that scarred him, outside for a while, inside forever.

He chose to deal with the abuse by becoming an abuser.  I do not feel sorry for the man he became.

I cry for the child standing beside me with his hand in the flame...