As a child, I always looked forward to Wintertime. Mama and I would snuggle up on our soft couch, across from the comforting fireplace, and watch as the tiny crystals turned our backyard into a beautiful, porcelain palace. I listened in awe as her warm voice filled our home with sweet melodies. I would slip my tiny fingers into her hand while she held a bag of frozen mixed-veggies in the other. I cherished the few moments we spent alone. The few moments where I could be myself. Where I could be... free. But all good things come to an end.
Papa wasn’t always a short-tempered man. After the sawmill let him go, money was scarce. That didn’t stop him from buying a large bottle of Jim Beam whenever he could. He would leave before sunrise and come home long after dinner, and long after Mama had tucked me in. He would scream for her to fix him up something to eat; I could hear the sound of plates smashing against the wall whenever he wasn’t satisfied. That’s when he would drag Mama up the cold stairs and into their bedroom. That’s when I would sneak down to our soft couch, across from the comforting fireplace. That’s when I would cover my ears, just like Mama had taught me, and watch the tiny crystals trickle down from the clouds.
As I grew older, it became more difficult for my mother to conceal the traces Father’s fits left on her body. I came home one evening to find her on the kitchen floor, crouching over a small hand mirror, caking pale pigment over her cheekbones. I watched silently as she messily swiped a stick of rosewood red across her lips, shards of her beloved China collection scattered around her. It seemed like hours had passed before Mother finally opened her mouth, only her once warm voice, filled with sweet melodies, was no more. Instead she let out a heart-wrenching scream, her body shaking violently with each deep gasp. I picked her up by her heavy shoulders and slowly led her to our rough couch. I tossed a few logs of wood into our no longer comforting fireplace before retreating to the kitchen. I reached my arm into the back of the ice box, pulled out the vegetables, and placed them gently in her hands. As I turned to leave, she grabbed my arm and gently pulled me down to sit with her. We watched the tiny crystals in silence as she held the bag of frozen mixed-veggies to her tender eye.
Papa wasn’t always a short-tempered man. After the sawmill let him go, money was scarce. That didn’t stop him from buying a large bottle of Jim Beam whenever he could. He would leave before sunrise and come home long after dinner, and long after Mama had tucked me in. He would scream for her to fix him up something to eat; I could hear the sound of plates smashing against the wall whenever he wasn’t satisfied. That’s when he would drag Mama up the cold stairs and into their bedroom. That’s when I would sneak down to our soft couch, across from the comforting fireplace. That’s when I would cover my ears, just like Mama had taught me, and watch the tiny crystals trickle down from the clouds.
As I grew older, it became more difficult for my mother to conceal the traces Father’s fits left on her body. I came home one evening to find her on the kitchen floor, crouching over a small hand mirror, caking pale pigment over her cheekbones. I watched silently as she messily swiped a stick of rosewood red across her lips, shards of her beloved China collection scattered around her. It seemed like hours had passed before Mother finally opened her mouth, only her once warm voice, filled with sweet melodies, was no more. Instead she let out a heart-wrenching scream, her body shaking violently with each deep gasp. I picked her up by her heavy shoulders and slowly led her to our rough couch. I tossed a few logs of wood into our no longer comforting fireplace before retreating to the kitchen. I reached my arm into the back of the ice box, pulled out the vegetables, and placed them gently in her hands. As I turned to leave, she grabbed my arm and gently pulled me down to sit with her. We watched the tiny crystals in silence as she held the bag of frozen mixed-veggies to her tender eye.
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