The moment my body hit the bed I knew a point of action had been attained. I lept back up to my feet, grabbed the box of socks that had been taken from me and was determined to not let go. A battle ensued from the bedroom to the hallway where, after being pushed repeatedly I took a hugging hold of his leg and just refused to let go. I screamed a mantra without end, "Zenny stop! I love you, stop!" My contact with his leg had him off balance causing him to fall crashing into two framed photos on the wall. I held on as we thrashed into the den. He fell into the small grandfather clock at the corner of the living room with a second crash. I think it was at this point that I discovered Mom prying me loose as I was relentless in maintaining a grip of that right leg. I wondered what Mom must be thinking as her two adult sons waged war from room to room in her house. Now free of my leg hold, I lay on the den floor sobbing for what seemed like just a few moments. Then, remembering that it was Mom who was in danger and the reason I was having this altercation I jumped up to pick up the broken mess we'd made. Oddly, Zenny was quick to then do the same. He lunged at the large bits of glass and frame and wood pieces scooping them up without care and taking them in two trips to the trash bins outside. I continued my stalking of his every move. Watching for another outburst of rage. After he hurried to put away all evidence of any indescrecsion, Zen finished his dressing by putting on socks, shoes, and hat all the while maintaining a verbal battle with Mom. I watched him each second as he then stormed through the front door, up the hill, and down the street still in a vocal tyrate. Cathargic is the feeling that pervades me after all this expended energy. I was instantly taken back to the unspoken habit we had as kids in south Georgia of somehow getting into a fight every Sunday after church.
