Through the eyes of a little girl
I’ve seen more than my fair share of horror. Long ago I was asleep in a nightmare I couldn’t wake from, when it finally ended I found that which haunted me was more real than I thought. I was a prey to my life. My eyes could find no escape from what I saw, whether opened or closed, the only colour I saw was Fury.
My Mother was meek in every manner of speaking. Her soft gray eyes could lift the soul and calm the spirits. She just knew how to put people at ease. Tensions frittered away before her like clouds giving way to the sun. Her tender navigation of words made many feel that all that was wrong could be made right. And she, unbelievable as it may be, was however, no different from the rest of us. Our Lady put her foot one in front of the other like every one else, but some how made more progress. She engineered bridges and filled in gaps where needed. We were known at the supermarkets and thrift centres, where we volunteered. But none was more familiar as the food banks and women’s shelters she religiously devoted her weekends. She was as she was, not for recognition or accolades, but because within herself she knew of no other way to be.
At an even 6 feet 250 pounds He possessed quite a commanding and intimidating stature. His exterior was rigid yet smooth. Dark brown where his eyes and sometimes black as night they were, but could easily come to life if something excited him. Also I remember them being laser sharp on occasion and that was when no one wanted to be around. They had a way of dissecting you while cutting straight through to your soul bit by bit. His cheek bones laid chiseled high on his face which pulled up the bold chin structured on the column he had for a neck. The shoulders and chest were broad and bold, respectively. At the end of his sculptured arms where callous worn hands that gave as much as they took, with little gentleness to spare. The rest of his torso fell like an hour glass into his hips. After years of athletics and military training his lower half afforded him the foundation to hold all that body together. He had posture, he had form. He was solid.
My father was gracefully fluid in motion and statuette when still. An aura of confidence came with him and it was visibly present. Men and women both young and old, married, unmarried, divorced, widowed or not paid reverence to his figure. In his presence some saturated him with their benign stares. Others left fixated. Only To be replaced by more salivating before him like Pavlov’s dogs enticed by the bell to illicit a desirable response; coveting every inch of his splendor. He reveled in those monotonous fantasies. They lifted him, inflated his ego with a sense that was never exorbitant externally. He very well could have been put in a museum as an exhibit and still they would have all paid to see him. A wretched sight to behold. Yet, I like them was trapped in his outside facade. Until I grew older and of a conscious mind I saw my father through the eyes of a little girl. I truly didn’t know him. To know him was to understand his thoughts. His ego. His brain. Only one person was privy to that and well beyond. My Ma knew him better than he knew himself. She was aware where he wasn’t mindful of himself. She knew his subconscious. Still, he was Zeus and this was his Olympia, problem was she didn’t see it that way. She married a man not a god. Ma had her God and my father wasn’t him. Trouble was he didn’t agree to see it that way.
Should I continue?
