2:35 p.m., 2005-02-02
My mom cleaned out the rafters in the garage of stuff we haven't even looked at in fifteen years. A lot of it by right or by sentimental connection is my dad's. They set up a meeting today for him to get it all. The last vestiges of his stuff in her life. Materially speaking anyway.
He arrives, a little late, which has already set her on edge. Soon enough from the garage all the way in my room I can hear his booming voice, her screechy yell. It has begun.
I'm paralyzed, I can't move to go out there although I know it would make things better. If they weren't alone there would be more perspective. They wouldn't yell so much. But I can't.
Screaming about a fishing pole. Swearing. Saying mean things about each other and their pasts. It's getting ugly.
When I was little, between six and eight, I used to imagine running from my room to wherever they were and jumping on my dad's back. Holding him and making him stop what he was doing and making him see reason. I knew if he saw me that he would calm down and stop the abuse.
But there was a part of me that wasn't sure. That didn't know whether or not he would just turn on me. And then it would be me at the center of his fury. So I never did go out there. I never tried to stop the fighting and the insanity.
