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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required The first time a belt struck my bottom, I became haunted. Dad raised his voice. The ghost covered her bottom and pressed her back against my bedroom wall. Fear clung to my back. Dad didn't break in with a raised belt. By nine, I was too close to puberty with a sense of identity outside my parents. I could learn to speak up. Dad's threat of a spanking remained while my parents were married. The ghost persisted after I severed Dad's belt from me. My parents divorced the same year Grandpa grew quiet. The memory of Dad's violence echoed under Grandpa's wheezes. Grandpa moved in when Dad was shoved out. I cut up Dad's belts. Mom abandoned Dad's junk on the curbside. The garbage collectors didn't get to trash Dad's stuff on Thursday morning. Grandpa was a welcome change in the former office. Mom and I didn't have to tiptoe past the door. I was tasked with staying nearby in case Grandpa needed something. Mom told me to ignore his mumblings and to call her if he starts screaming. Grandpa's foster parents weren't nice. He had to be thankful for being fed, and their belt was his closest sibling. He remembered them the closer he got to death. He was peaceful when I was there. I like to believe it was because I was his favorite grandchild. But I couldn't ignore the ghost beside him. My ghost acknowledged him. He didn't do the same. The ghosts' dynamic refused to change. Grandpa and his ghost died. Our shared truth haunts me.
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