page 7 of 30												index

  
		

I remember 		

		a New Year's Eve 
		during which 
		my father flew into 
		a particularly violent rage. 
				
		My parents had planned 
		on going dancing that evening. 
				
		They had met when they were both 
		professional dance instructors. 
				
		I was always thrilled 
		to watch them dance 
		because they were so graceful, 
		but I think it was really more than that. 
				
		It was also one of the few times 
		when the sight of my parents touching 
		didn't fill me with fear. 
		
		
				
		I can't remember anymore 
		exactly what it was 
		that my parents fought about that night. 
				
		I just remember the sounds 
		of furniture being smashed, 
		my mother being hit 
		and thrown around the house, 
		her pleading and crying. 
				
		I had escaped to my room, 
		as I often did, 
		and crawled into bed. 
				
		I slid into the middle, 
		stuffed the covers into my ears, 
		and tried not to hear the sounds 
		beyond my bedroom door.

		On New Year's Day I awoke 
		to a completely silent house. 
			
		I silently crept into the living room 
		where I found our artificial Christmas tree 
		on its side, snapped in half. 
				
		The dining room table was upside down, 
		with one leg still attached 
		and another protruding from the far wall. 
				
		There was almost no furniture still intact. 
				
		Most of the contents of the two rooms, 
		including shards of Christmas ornaments, 
		remain strewn across the floor. 
		
		
		
		Later, my mother and I 
		were ordered 
		to clean up the mess, 
		as my father silently supervised.
		
		
		
Through events . . .