Draft 6: Traumatizing event from childhood, using short clipped lines and a poetic phrase

Moai

24 year old VHS tape-holding the Maid of Honor’s 
comments--stuck in the receiver.
My parent’s gift, covered in dust and almost boxed.
Why does Dad have these? Mom’s the only one whoever watched them.
I cross my legs. Knees crack like the snapping shut of VHS cases. Downstairs, a golf video game jazzes
a call and response: birthday gift from years ago turns into verbal MMA matches about time spent at the virtual driving range.
Gazing past the single stockinged mantle, to broken down boxes, towers to toddlers,
in the three stall garage--once housing a family of Hondas, now shelters
one Acura and a Craftsman tool-chest never opened-- and a roll of packing tape, half used hanging off the granite counter. Dad, my voice bounces off the white walls, do you want 
all the wine glasses? Or half?
He appears from the cellar, carrying a corkscrew in one hand, Barefoot
Merlot in the other. I place the screw on Sahara colored packing
paper, while reaching for the upside down half hourglass bottle. He smashes
it against the wall, garnets staining, filling the voids
from each pawned diamond, spliced from the white gold.
It said all my love.
She needs to go tap dance on broken glass and hot coals.
He stone-faces, stripped like Easter Island, placing his matching white gold next to the pile of broken glass.