The Song of My Mother’s Cheek

His hand rose in the air,

without any pause and without mercy

and hit her face,

in a place where love once lived,

took the blow like a prize-winning boxer,

with no defense, and with no escape.

And O! the sound,

the brutal sound that,

rattled the cabinets,

and settled in the corners.

It is still with me.

That sound will outlive every window in that house.

I stood at the doorway,

my chest full of words I could never say.

Mama raised her hand to her cheek with grace,

testing the shape of her own skin

as if it might fail her.

Behind her, the coffee pot steaming,

unmoved by violence,

faithful to its morning ritual.

Tuesday morning passed along

as if nothing had broken.

I wanted to move.

To shout his name like it might strike him back.

To wedge myself between them,

But I stayed.

The boards beneath me held me in place,

My mouth filled with everything I could never say,

the heavy silence of a child who understands too much.

She saw me.

Her eyes found mine,

just once,

but long enough to leave a memory.

Her shame filled the space between us like binders.

My fear stood upright,

alert and burning.

And underneath it all,

a knowing

that we were both caught

in the same lonely room.

Up in these hills,

women stay where they are swallowed.

They marry young.

They carry children and groceries and bruises.

No car, No savings, No safe road

that leaves his shadow behind.

Mama waited sixteen years to break free.

She endured winter after winter,

boiling water to bathe,

patching walls with towels.

And when he was gone one night,

off chasing whatever lived at the bottom of his bottle,

she packed two paper bags,

her hands full with desperation,

her voice held steady for the first time in years.

She made it out.

She lived free.

And then, seventeen years ago,

she died

quietly,

like wind passing through an open window.

Still, I hear it.

That sound.

His hand through the air.

Her face beneath it.

Still, I see her fingers touch the skin,

slow, deliberate,

like someone checking for heat

after the fire has gone.

She pressed her own cheek

as if to say

I am here.

I am real.

This is mine.