The wagon brimmed with petals from Mom's prized roses. Dad browsed for a switch, like a scholar contemplating his beloved tomes. He selected one from the oak in whose shadow I once stood in awe. Between lashes, Dad counselled nothing was safe from the absolute corruption of the human hand, not even God's pure beauty. I studied my scars and withdrew to hone my axe. When he came home late one night, drunk and waving his gun around, I remembered. Not even unconditional love could withstand the hardened years of my razor-sharp wrath. I cut that goddamned tree down.