The Rest

Just sitting here in the bedroom, rocking, looking down and seeing that I made the bed wrong. You can see the top sheet from beneath the comforter. And you cannot see the bed skirt. 

I did miter the corners, but you cannot tell. That is something that daddy would beat us for if it was not properly done. 

And he always checked.

My first thought was to talk to Cindy and tell her, "I made the bed wrong." Some small, child-like part of me wanted to hear someone say, "that's okay."

Like being beaten for using too much toilet paper.

Daddy would watch us and make sure that the toilet paper didn't touch the floor as we unrolled it to wipe, in such private moments. But there were never any private moments. We never knew what to expect or when to expect it. 

This morning I stared at some of the flaws in the wall in my bedroom, and was reminded of the many holes and broken furniture in my childhood. Daddy's strong fists; his big arms and his powerful presence. 

I was reminded of always being afraid.

My door is now shut and I sit here alone, knowing nobody knows the secret agony, and there's really nobody I can tell it to because there really are no words with which to describe it. 

None of the beatings or holes in the walls or abandonments or embarrassments mattered, compared to the rest. 

The rest... The rest. How heavy it is, to feel "the rest" and all other things, threaded through time - torturous and painful - to "the rest."

All tied to a man it seems I surrendered my soul to. 

Daddy.