Why not talk about his hands? The way the coarse black hairs on his fingers curled around his deeply creased knuckles? They were strong hands. Capable.
Why not talk about his aim? How he could shoot a bottle from across the distance of his sprawling backyard? The bottles would fly up into the air, green or transparent, catching the light for a brief moment before returning to the dirt.
Why not talk about the creek he dug himself with a pick ax and a shovel? Shallow, fetid water hole where he tried to raise fish unsuccessfully. They suffocated slowly in the confined space and the heat. He didn’t try again.
Why not talk about his temper? How he beat everything down with those thick, hairy hands? How he fantasized about guns, violence, and sex? How he too smothered in a shallow pool in the small town his parents moved to when he was a kid?
Instead, you talked about Jesus, when I specifically asked you not to. He didn’t know him. No one knew him.