I longed for a season without a storm,
because one always brewed within our house
when I was a child on Hinman Avenue.
Even at six years old I sensed tension
between Mom and Dad, but I didn’t realize
their struggles would end in divorce.
We owned a very successful confectionery
on Barthman Avenue, deep in the South End
of Columbus, and Dad drank much of the profits
when he wasn’t threatening Mom with a knife
or holding her at gunpoint.
Even though I was just a kid in the 40s,
memories of those years remain more vivid
than any other time in my life. I wanted
to love my dad, in spite of his physical abuse
of me. He, however, didn’t want that.
Looking through our family album recently,
I found many shots of him holding me
when I was a baby, a look of pride on his
handsome face that I was in his arms.
I don’t know what happened in the next
six years that distanced him from me.
I assumed he just didn’t like the boy I’d become.
He was very athletic. I hated sports.
Was that the reason he practically disowned me,
locked me within a dark coalbin, beat welts
on the back of my legs?
Mostly, during those early years, sky’s menacing
clouds loomed over me like a threatening fist.
Because I grew up in the midst of tempestuous
weather, I turned inward to protect myself from
what fell upon me from the unkind heavens.
