Generational Repairs

My Tayta always repaired clothing with a bright red thread.

She was proud to mend our worn out things,

We were wearing them out after all,

Living life and having fun.

She would hum her disapproval,

And shake her head,

At a proudly presented rip,

Or a laughing hole,

But as she wove things back together,

She smiles to herself,

She has a purpose.

I always wondered why she neglected other repairs,

Ones that could've given her real purpose,

And put a smile on all of our faces.

My grandfather swam at the bottom of glass bottles.

Tayta recycled them every week,

Lugging clinking bags,

Over her back,

Struggling with every step,

But not a word leaves her lips.

He would yell,

Throw things,

Ask us kids to sit still,

With our hands on our laps.

Our smiles turned upside down,

Being glared at for every sound,

We sat in stressed silence,

Focused on quieting our breaths,

Pretending to watch the Arabic news,

What a delightful visit to grandpa's house.

As we leave,

Tayta tells us...

"He is just having a bad day."

My mother was like her father,

Angry insults and threats.

When she was tired,

Or upset,

We knew it.

We could hear it in the explosive bursts of her voice,

Feel it in the hairbrush,

Roughly ripping tangles from the roots,

And the nail clippers,

Cutting nails too short with sharp edges,

When our red cheeks,

And dried tears made her feel guilty,

She would tell us...

"I'm sorry I had a bad day."

My mother coddled my father,

His every whim catered to,

Leftovers for the children,

And a separate meal for him,

And when he would strike our skin raw,

For mistakes not worthy of punishment,

My mother told us...

"He is just having a bad day."

My Tayta,

With her wrinkled, hardworking hands,

With her sweet treats offered from the bottom of her bag,

With her stories that always taught a lesson,

Why did she repair our clothes,

But not her family?

She could've said so many things,

To her daughter,

And to her grandchildren,

But all she said was...

"They had a bad day."

All of those bad days,

Passed on from generations,

Of silent mothers.

Some with fists by their sides,

Some with their palms caressing tear-stained cheeks,

They all taught their daughters about bad days.

How men have bad days,

And how bad days are okay.

Even if they hurt our feelings,

Or our bodies.

My Tayta always repaired our clothing with a bright red thread.

But she also sowed shut,

Every protest,

Every stand against the hands and words of angry men.

She raised silent women,

Who raised silent daughters.

The generations of abuse,

Allowed by one phrase,

"They are having a bad day."