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In this cluttered attic of my mind,
I harbor so many memories of Daddy.
The ones that make me smile
and those that hurt are inextricable.

He was hard on my siblings and me.
Oh, he was never physical, but his words
often made us wish for the belt instead.

How many times did he wither us—
and Mom!—with scornful, demeaning
words? Why? Mom prepared a meal that
was less than perfect. We kids forgot a
chore or made below 90 on test,  . . .

Dad’s need for perfection extended beyond
our household. More than once, he lashed
out at the local grocery store owner:
“There are a few slightly dented cans on your 
shelves! Do you expect people to buy these?!” 

I mentioned smiles. The few times he
bragged on me—Good job, Son—
I felt like a King, and I smiled for days,
no matter what else transpired during that time.

Memories of Dad were all formed by
Christmas Eve when I was thirteen. 		
	
He left “to get a few last-minute presents, 
so you kids can’t go.” We haven’t seen him since. 
We noticed suitcases and his belongings
were gone. 

We’ll never know exactly why he left. At first,
we blamed ourselves; we couldn’t measure up. 

He left behind his family, like dented cans on shelves.

I wonder if we ever cross his mind.


FICTION


February 4, 2021
Contest Title: Break My Heart, Why Don't Cha?
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh

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