By: Tamra Scott-Hunt
I don’t want to hate you….
I want to dig deep and remember the times you were civil, pleasant, and safe.
I don’t want to remember the hot, cold burn of your leather belt, your bulging temple veins, your clenched teeth spewing angry threats, the shameful insults you hurled at a 6-year old child, or 4, or 2, or 14 when you left; a four-foot statue thrown against a fireplace, my hair in the grip of your hand as you threatened to kill me for a bedroom not clean enough, a patio not swept enough, a closet not organized to perfection. I grew sideways fearing your glance. In forty years I’ll wake with a jolt, the image of a madman lingering in the dawn. I’m standing over you with a cast iron skillet, smashing down the anger and shame you forced me to swallow. All the venom I spit in your face won’t heal the helpless child you broke. I don’t want to hate you; oh, but I do.