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 . . .