A Reminiscence

When I was six years old,

I accidentally knocked a bowl

of fideo off the kitchen table.

*

I watched in slow motion helplessness

as the bowl arced through the air,

tumbling over itself so every drop

of the caramel-colored liquid,

*

every thin strand of the flavored

Mexican pasta, slipped the physical

bonds of connection to the bowl

until gravity did its work

*

and the bowl shattered

on the linoleum floor.

*

My mother’s back was to me,

and I saw her body start

at the unexpected crash,

watched her whirl around to face me.

*

Her face was contorted

in anger and fear.

*

“What have you done?”

she hissed at me. “Do you

want him to come through that door,

eyes big to hit you?”

*

All I could do was weep

and flee, finding my hiding place

in a closet, hands over my ears

to stifle the sound of my own sobs,

*

and realizing the threat of

my father's explosive violence

could be aimed at me, even then,

if I was not perfect.

*

I never realized until long years later

the seed of a poison fruit was planted

that day, germinating in over achievement

and then rebellion, blooming in my own

*

life through the decades when I realized

I had absorbed more of him

than I cared to admit,

before I stepped out of that enchanted circle.

*

I used to think it was in the blood,

inescapable, a curse I’d carry forever.

I learned it was just a reaction

to a brave woman, trapped and helpless,

*

trying to keep me safe

from my father’s own expressions

of fear and unworthiness,

of self-doubt and worry.

*

I can understand that,

those things.

I can forgive that,

and forgive those things.