What some parents don’t want to remember their children can’t forget.
I’ve turned fifty, yet the child within me can’t help but remember.
In a small house in Arden, North Carolina in 1964, my mother tried to wake my father from a deep nap on the living room couch. Beer likely fueled that nap. I would soon learn even one or two lubed the gears of violence within that beautiful man.
But I was too young to know that then. I was a little past three years old. This ranks as my first memory of childhood.
My dad sprang from the couch, straddled and pinned my mother to the floor, and beat her so hard with his open hand her head thundered off the hardwood. She fought him, hard. Screamed for him to stop. I joined her. My cries fused with hers from where I stood, no more than six…
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