When his throw met my limp guard, it pushed my fists into my face and stunned me a couple steps back. My uncoordinated feet tripped over my desk chair, and I stumbled to the carpet.

“Get up, dickhead!” he bickered. “You got to anticipate! They’re not gonna tell you when they’re gonna punch.”

He pulled me to my feet. My left cheekbone began to throb where I hit myself, as tears waited patiently for the next embarrassing or painful moment. I let out a deep, quivered breath to hold them back, stepped forward and resumed.

Knowing that I'd be expecting another light jab, he punched harder—I was not ready. My mid-finger knuckles, which up until this point were only used for knocking or improvised drumming, slammed into the bridge of my nose. My eyes swelled with salty fluid, and blood dripped down the back of my throat at the upward tilt of my chin.

He struck again. This time I pushed my guard out to meet his jab and deflect his momentum. This essentially worked, if my objective was to stop hitting myself. However, the pain of his sailing punch scrunched my face and squeezed tears out of my eyes; blood out of my nose.

I stepped back, wiped my eyes and nose on the backs of my swelling hands, and sniffed blood back up my sinuses. The leftover liquid on my hands immediately began to dry: tears into cool evaporation; blood into sticky, thin paint. Without saying a word, I slowly brought up my hands, displaying the bright red streaks. I glared at him through teary eyes, ready for his next combination.

Upon seeing that he drew blood, he slightly dropped his guard. The soft moment, however, did not linger being reminded of the day’s syllabus. He began to circle around me, dotting my guard with jabs and numbing the pain with each blow.

“It hurts to get punched, doesn’t it?” he quipped. “Try getting out of the way.”

My socks loosened on awkwardly shuffling feet. I tried to mimic his motions. My torso bent from side to side, narrowly missing some of his strikes—not quick enough.

“Better. Now hit me,” he said. I froze.

“Hit me, goddamnit!”

Startled, I jabbed his guard like he did mine; only his didn’t give. Being 5 years my senior, I assumed I couldn't do much to hurt him.

“That’s all you got?” he mocked "Again!" 

I punched him slightly harder.

“You’re gonna have to do a lot better than that,” he said—more jabs and combinations.

He swayed left to right and dodged most of my advances, while nonchalantly adjusting his glasses between attacks. My punches felt like they were hurting me more than they were hurting him, as my raw knuckles met his solid defense. I felt immensely defeated; my face streamed with tears and blood.

“This is pathetic. You’re never gonna get respect fighting like that. Get mad! Get angry, goddamnit!” he taunted.

I felt a cavity open up just under my ribcage, filling with volatile sludge. I studied and anticipated his next movement. I pulled back my fist and released my hip-led hand; it struck his defense with an audible pop. His guard slightly gave under the force of my punch; his knuckle softly smudging his glasses. Holding up one hand, he dropped his guard.

“You’re ready.”

| 4 |

“Are you ready?” the funeral director whispered coffee breath in my ear; I nodded even though I was not. I stepped over to her sealed casket in queue before the enormous, stainless steel oven. My worn shoes squeaked across the sanitized floor of the windowless room. I placed my hand on top of the box and checked its stability. It was solid, yet porous and could easily catch a flame. The sniffles and quiet snobs of our immediate family bounced against the tiled walls, deafening my train-wrecked thoughts.

Driven by anger, I scowled at the funeral director as if he was the reason I could not hold my wife’s hand one last time. Luckily for him, he was looking down at his polished shoes, taking mental note of something unrelated. My eyes burned with anger.

Towards the end of her cancerous life, anger was my most prevalent emotion: angry at the doctors who overlooked her obvious symptoms; angry at the specialists who boasted control over her mutating condition; angry at the insincerity of insurance agents; angry at myself for being preoccupied with anger and not compassion.

My anger, however, permanently hardened into regret that day—a feeling vaguely familiar when I looked back on our marriage of only four years. I regretfully thought of all the times we argued. Some fights were little spats over a difference of opinion, a bad day contagion, or hunger-induced irrationalities. Some arguments were much more serious: dilapidating home repair, the prospect of children, and worst of all, money: where it was coming from and where it was going.

One commonality in all of our fights, other than the outlandish actions accelerated by my blind rage, were our shared feelings of regret after the fight was over—disbelief that our love, presumably strong enough to withstand the collapse of the cosmos, was susceptible to so much anger and hatred.

It seemed counterproductive that the ugliest fight, where devastating accusations are hurled or where insecure issues are ridiculed, has the potential to be the most effective nourishment for a growing relationship, but it only works if it's been properly reconciled. Nevertheless, it was this recognizable feeling of regret that saturated my insides. My knees buckled under its weight, and I crumpled to the floor.

The family gasped and stepped forward to help me, but the outstretched arms of my brother halted them. He paused and looked down at me.

“Get up,” he calmly said. I didn’t move. My bodily functions were shutting down, paralyzed with remorse and crushed by gravity.

“Get up,” he said louder.

I felt something inside me fighting to keep my lungs breathing and my heart beating.

“Did you hear me? I said...”

| 5 |

“Get up, dickhead!”

My brother's voice sounds far away, and my head is spinning. I try to pull the double-imaged ref into focus. My opponent caught me again with his straight right, confirming my defensive flaw—something we’ll surely work on in the months to come.

“5...6...7...” the referee yells at my recharging face.

I clutch the turnbuckle for support and rise to my feet before the eight-count. The ref grabs my taped wrists and wipes my gloves on the sides of his stomach, smearing purple bodily fluid on his starched blue shirt. “You good to go?”

Before I can answer, he turns to my opponent and chops the air: “Box!”

Both corners shout instructions, spectators instigate; their screams blend into a dead language. My opponent rushes at me, flailing random combinations to stint my recovery. I do my best to block his slugs, as my focus centers on his sternum rising and falling with each throw.

He continues his inaccurate barrage. At this rate, he will punch himself out.

“You gotta box, or I’ll call it!” the ref warns me.

I throw a straight-right and left-hook to the body to appease him. Both are deflected but stop him from advancing. We grapple. Now, I’m well over half-strength. My ear rests on his right shoulder, and I can hear his labored breath through his neck, wheezing and struggling to feed oxygen to his exhausted muscles. He throws soft rabbit punches at my sides like swatting away flies. I feel the right side of my face grin like a mad man; the left side still numb from the knockdown.

“Break it up; break it up!” commands the ref. We break apart, and I immediately notice his fatigue pulling down the skin on his face. The crowd settles for a moment, randomly cutting the air with bloodthirsty exclamations.

I hear three loud slaps against the base of the ring: 10 seconds left in the final round. He’s breathing heavily through his mouth guard. The seconds pull apart the ring, as we stand guarded a foot apart. His eyes beg for the moments to pass faster. I’ll lose after that knockdown if we go to the cards, but I try my best not to seem rushed.

Still not fully recovered, my floating brain throbs behind my eyes, searching for an anchor point to hold steady. I think of my pain compared to her pain: obnoxiously imbalanced. I’m brought back to the final moments of her life; these memories will haunt me forever. Faint beeps of her life-support system begin to plug my ears.

I shake away my last thoughts of her bedridden and helpless; she wouldn’t want me to remember her that way. Instead, I think of her smiling at me, and I’m pulled into euphoria. I see her behind my opponent’s left shoulder, clear as that sunny day. Without thought, I step towards her, and he turns with me.

I remember my brother’s advice before the round and step right, cutting off the ring. With his retreat narrowed, he turns his body. My eyes x-ray his liver, which is now in striking distance. He notices my intent and instinctually drops his elbow to block any more pain to that area, which also gives me a clear view the right side of his face. With one punch, I know I can win the fight, but I’m filled with hesitation.

I think about going home that night, still high from victory but not able to share it with her—not able to smell the soap on her hands as she dresses the wounds on my face or hear her question the methods of my brother/trainer, which would surely end in a fight. I miss her terribly and am boiled over with madness. The cavity begins to open in my gut.

I balk my left hand at his liver. Before his bent right arm can flex against his body, my left hip is mid-torque, twisting my upper body. My left fist barrels toward his right temple. The sticky leather glove magnetically connects with his hairline, rippling the skin on his skull. His appendages become dead weight, and his body topples to the canvas.

The bell rings, marking the end of regulation. The audience cheers and applauds, happily justifying their price of admission. The ref rushes over to him—his limbs twisted as if falling from a high scaffold. He places his hand on my opponent’s back; he’s unresponsive. The ref waives his hands, calling the fight and signaling the paramedics in one motion. The bell rings for a winner by knockout.

Exhausted, I fall to my knees, look up at the ceiling and close my eyes. Hints of anger and adrenaline pulse slowly away from my body. I exhale the last of it and am brought back to that street corner, waiting for my love. I’m filled with the same anxious anticipation. My gut shrivels with impatience, my fists clench, and my arms chill at the loneliness to come.

Although it is recorded as a victory, I feel as defeated as my first boxing lesson those many years ago. My eyes dart behind closed eyelids in search of anything recognizable. I’m hopelessly lost without her. What now? I silently ask.

I hear no response, but without warning, all archived images of her rapidly leaf through me, overloading with endless memories: each fight, each successful or botched reconciliation. A brilliant kaleidoscope of our mutual growth floods into the deep crevasse left behind after her passing. Warm air blankets me, crumbling my regret and replacing it with pure patience.

I open my eyes and admire this gift with a smile, overflowing with certainty that our next meeting will be well worth the wait.