I was ten

I remember it, sweetened and bitter,

like it was just an hour ago.

 

I still hear the voices

harsh, rasping,

yelling into my face

spit splattering on my own lips.

Day in, day out

They are unforgotten.

 

I hear other voices now

these ones tell me

that reaching for the bottle of Jack

at the near edge

of the coffee table

is the way to go

 

And, I give in

 

Every

Time

 

***

 

It was a good day

when the essence of cherries,

warm and drifting

through the house to

my mother’s humming

of a song I could not name

but recognized.

 

On a stool, elbows on the counter,

I sat mesmerized by her

kneading the dough on the flour-dusted board

Her work, my admiration.

 

***

 

That day my mother,

held back,

kicked her legs.

tried to grab any clothes

that would bring me back into her arms

drag me back to her.

 

My mind said, “This is not good”

my mother screeched

and I knew it was worse than that

I was not just going to school.

 

***

The building, wooden, shone golden in the sunlight

Inside, the colourless cold, coated in grey,

covered the filth and sorrow,

held rows upon rows

of tiny beds

chipped and fragile

each isolated and

 

Silent.

 

My mind asked, “A day? Forever?”

Behind me, a dark uniform followed,

making sure I did not rebel.

My feet numb

I walked the pattern of Stone,

                                                        Cement,

                                                                              Stone,

                                                                                                Cement.

Down the hall,

room to room

 

Until, with two abrupt turns

right and right,

A man’s strong grip on my forearm

shifted to a shove in the small of my back

and I fell face first,

and never the same,

to the cement

 

“Welcome home,” the uniform mocked

In a language I could not name, but understood.

and that is the voice

I remember most.