Mom and Dad's Fault
Sister Irma's boney finger pierces my chest.
Returning to my second grade classroom following recess,
I flash someone "the bird."
Second grader, I'd seen older boys use the sign.
I ask Joe, a schoolmate, what it meant.
At 51, I dribble up-court.
Sister Irma's finger stabs me again.
"I probably ate too quickly. It's heartburn."
Game over, I head home.
Pop a half-dozen Rolaids. Relax in bed.
"It'll be gone in the morning."
No such luck.
Days later, cardiologist hover over me.
Announce I need a quadruple bypass.
"But, I don't smoke, eat badly and I work out regularly."
"Genetics."
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