BEDTIME STORIES

When I was young,
my father would come
home with paper bags
filled with too much candy.
"Shh," he says,
the tip of his finger on his smile.
"This is our secret."

When I was young,
my father would come
home with bedtime stories
of merchants, musicians,
and charming magicians,
of back alley deals
and avoiding arrest,
and I listen,
my heart like a gun in my chest.
"Shh," he says,
the tip of his finger on his mouth.
"This is our secret."

When I was young,
my father would come
home with booze
in an almost empty bottle
and empty insults
on his tongue,
for Mom.
"Shh," he says,
his hand hiding his smirk.

When I was young,
my father would come
home with a scowl
on his face
and he sits at the table,
dishes and platters
of rice and stews,
each prepared by Mom,
by hand.
"I'm heading out," he snaps,
as he swipes his arm across the table,
sending the food to the floor.
He flashes a smiling wink
at me.

When I was young,
my father would come
home with booze
on his breath
and a strange woman
on his arm.
And he forces Mom
to sleep on my floor.
"Shh," he says,
the tip of his finger
on my mouth.
"This is our secret."

When I was young,
my father came home
with a gun.
He calls for Mom, and when she steps into the bedroom, he aims the pistol, level with her head, and he pulls the trigger. Eyes wide, she screams a half-scream as the bullet misses her face and hits the doorframe. Then he turns, laughter in his stare and the tip of his finger - dirt under his fingernail - pointing at me. Until now, that was my secret.

by Anonymous