Scattered Pieces

INTRODUCTION “Flora. Come give daddy a hug.” “No!” I replied. “Flora. Come give me a hug.” “Ha. Ha. Ha.” I giggled. “No, daddy!” I n the Logan section of Philadelphia, on Warnock Street, in our one-bedroom duplex, I continued hiding behind the living room sofa when I noticed my mother entering the room from the short hallway which connected to the kitchen. She could have been the poster model for Adina Howard’s hit single, “Tee Shirt and Panties,” for that was all she was wearing, aside from her radiant, wide smile for which she was commonly known. She was smiling and appeared to be happy to bring her man the food that she had taken great pride in preparing. With extended arms, she attempted to give her then-boyfriend, my father, the brown wooden serving tray. His observable appreciation reeked as he looked up at her with a dark grimace which I had not previously witnessed in my four years. Never had I foreseen the consequence of my innocent, childish play. Never did I anticipate that I would have been the cause for my father’s unconscionable brutality against my mother. Never did I image that a single memory could be held so vividly, so far above all others for the rest of my days. As he slapped the tray from my mother’s grasp, her smile disappeared. She inhaled quickly and audibly as she prepared for what was worse to come. He leaped from his wicker rocking chair and struck her in her face with his closed fist. —Everything went black. —Everything fell silent. My brain tried to shut down. My mind tried to block out the image that it had seen too many times before. This wasn’t new, but this was different. My mental concentration was broken by the sound of my father’s voice and my mother’s conquered visage—on her knees facing me, her chin erect to the ceiling. While his hands, filled with her long, brown, curly hair, were positioned at the crown of her head, he spoke to me: “You didn’t want to give your daddy a hug. Look at what I’m doing to your mommy.” At that very moment, he victimized me alongside my mother. He placed the guilt of his senseless deed upon my shoulders. At that moment, he made me responsible for my mother’s pain. I begged, pleaded even, to give him a hug. I wasn’t a child who was afraid of The Boogie Man, for I was unknowingly prepared to embrace a living, breathing monster. My shrill voice was unheard; my request was not granted, and the savage beating of my mother continued before my eyes. When she attempted to crawl out of the doorway leading to the foyer of the terrace level, he swiftly picked up a single weight from the floor. I do not recall having a weight bench, but I remember the metal disc; it was larger than five or even ten pounds. Once he turned to face the rear of her— Once he began taking steps towards her— Once he raised the circular, black, weighted object above his head— I saw too much. I could not stomach anymore. Feeling helpless, I sought refuge and sprinted from my hiding place behind the sofa into my parents’ bedroom. I knelt down, and I prayed. Even as a child, I knew that God heard my cries.