You Can’t Kill the Rooster

When a hurricane damaged my father’s house, my brother rushed over with a gas grill, three coolers full of beer, and an enormous Fuck-It Bucket — a plastic pail filled with jawbreakers and bite-size candy bars.  ("When shit brings you down, just say ‘fuck it,’ and eat yourself some motherfucking candy.")  There was no electricity for close to a week.  The yard was practically cleared of trees, and rain fell through the dozens of holes punched into the roof.  It was a difficult time, but the two of them stuck it out, my brother placed his small, scarred hand on my father’s shoulder to say, "Bitch, I’m here to tell you that it’s going to be all right.  We’ll get through this shit, motherfucker, just you wait."