My dad gets a flag
on this day,
even if I’m not there
to plant it.
© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday
“Fuck”, I screamed into the night. There are only so many times you can strike a pillow in the dark, without moving on to the headboard. Or the walls beside your bed. Kicking, outward, at the monsters that manifest, when they should have stayed deeply buried, with the voices, in your head.
Childhood is that place where outbursts are born, and hopefully they find their graves there, forever. But sometimes, if the outbursts are not buried deep enough, they return. Mine do. Though not without just cause, and not because their cultivation was unforeseen. These things can be felt, if you know what you’re feeling for, and I do. It’s when the irrational overwhelms the rational. When the past catches up to the present. And when the angry little boy takes over the body of the man, trying to sleep through frustration he was never made fit to control.
I always wanted to please him, but he never showed me how. There were no rules, only accidental connections with whatever it was he wanted out of me. Smiles, as random as they were unexpected. And severe rebuke when, in retrospect, a calm word would have caused all the tumblers in all the locks to all at once, miraculously, click into place. He was harsh, not hurtful. And when an apology was necessary, it came. If not in a hurry, then just in time. So it was, in those apologies, that I learned to give them when they were not asked for, and more so when they were. And to anyone who required it, for the deeds that I had done.
Yet the last remaining anyone to whom I have to give those words of unconditional acquittal, is me. Right before the scream.
© 2016 William S. Friday