Saturday, July 08, 2006
By Clai Lasher-Sommers
I rise up to you.
I lower my voice.
I get the tire measurements.
Your truck is not road-worthy.
I will make the arrangements for tires.
You will hand over the enormous amount of money
needed to make you safe.
Next you will hand over all the money
you work for day and night
to an escrow account that is then turned over
to a probation officer who is watching for the cash
and gleefully thinks you have learned your lesson.
Your lesson was learned only within
with tears that came from watching the police take
your fingers and put them in black ink.
They took your picture, too.
I think of your father and all he was.
You would not have done this
with him here.
You punish me again and again for his death.
You test me, you push me, you dishonor who I might be.
I step back from you.
I dishonor your abilities.
I dishonor your growing.
I want you to stay away
with your anger and your staunch maleness.
you did things:
mowed the lawn
toned down your voice
called your lawyer
Today I today I
Release my will
Long enough to
And set up a counseling appointment.
Today I love you once again.
Clai Lasher-Sommers is a writer in Columbia County, New York. She works as a librarian and writes frequently for MyStoryLives.