little hands, dusty and wrinkled ask me to stay in my place as my father rages on. i do not move, I am not supposed to, i just curl in amma's lap as he walks around in drunken stupor, rattling the doors and other things that get in his way: the only unbroken chair in the house, the shards of the table from last time, sometimes it is me. he is always smashing the bottle against the table and once on am