Twenty-One Wilted Roses

My boy, lively like his mother, had just won the school spelling bee. Oh boy, if you could see the look on his face! He was smiling from ear to ear, It made his eyes just light up.

He came up to me, holding the trophy, hell it was almost bigger than him. He was a small little nine year old, short and skinny, but smart.

A pure genius!

All I did was reach over and softly pat his back.

Any more than that and I'd be certaintly a queer.

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"Son, why you go off and hug me like that? You want to be a queerie? A discrace?"

I shook my head. Father scared me. I forgot not to hug him.

"Well you need to be punished. Don't ya think so?"

He was coming towards me. I froze.

I knew he was about to hit me.

I watched as he brought up his hand.

I screamed.

Then felt the trickle of blood down my cheek.

I started to cry.

I am only seven.
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Never will I hug my son, never.....

I am the father who has never hugged his son because I grew up afraid to show affection to other men.