He is sick now
Just like she dictated everyday,
And at forty-seven
He looks eighty.
He tries to care
To get by
Like the rest of us
But schizophrenia gets in his way.
Leftover from a childhood
He sometimes puts aside.
Sometimes…
But hardly ever forgets.
And I remember standing
In the corner of
A whisper green living room
At midnight
Scared to death.
His older sister
Only twelve myself
Couldn’t save him
(Only seven)
While Mother sent him to jail.
For running away…
Because Father
Following her daily harangues
Beat him to punish her.
In our house punishment came in threes:
Instigated by our Mother
Carried out by our Father
Forcibly held inside the rest of our lives
by us,
ourselves.
I never understood Hitler
Until I learned the hatred
Worshipped by my Parents
In the name of God.
All rights reserved. ©2009 by Sara Fryd
Sara Fryd 
Sara, I love this one. Have loved it since I first read it in What if…only one child remained? As you know, I so empathise with the dynamic of mother as a tyrant of prehistoric proportions…a dinosaur called unpleaseablesaurus. Why do husbands and fathers often fall under the spell to become the silent yet violent conspiritors ? That is a question I am still exploring. Thank you for sharing these emotions with us all…the sharing does help to ease the sadness.
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