If I strain my memory sometimes
I can recall
the times when my father beat my mother.
That was when he had been drinking and didn’t know better.
I knew that he truly loved her because in church
They told me that you must love one another to be married.
It scared me when they fought because my mother’s
Usually calm voice sounded like it couldn’t give me
comfort and when
It did that I knew my father would use his belt his
Dad gave to him when he was a kid.
The scars on his back show me that his dad must have loved
him very much too.
I would always run into the basement when they fought
because
Down there was an empty box that could have been full of
toys
Or chocolate or books or whatever I wanted it to.
No matter how hard they yelled, I always knew that my box
would never see me as a stranger
Even when the sounds of my dad’s belt drowned out the
sound of the washing machine.