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.
"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
booze
in an almost empty
bottle
and
empty insults
on his tongue,
for Mom.
"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
a scowl
on his face
and
he sits
at the table,
dishes
and platters
of rice
and stews,
each prepared
by hand,
by Mom.
"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.

When I was
young,
my father
came home
with
a gun.
He calls for my 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,
this was my secret.

by Anonymous