SPANKINGS

 

SPANKINGS

When I was ten,

my father spanked me.

Hard. Real hard!

Hard enough that the room blurred

and the air felt thin.

I remember the anger in his face

how it arrived before he did,

how it filled the doorway

like weather I couldn’t escape.

Back then,

I tried to make sense of it.

I searched for reasons

the way children do.

Maybe I forgot my bed.

Maybe the trash.

Maybe the dishes weren’t stacked

the way he liked them,

or the milk cap wasn’t tight enough

to keep the world from spilling.

But now,

looking back,

I know it was never about chores.

It was the layoff he didn’t mention.

The ticket he couldn’t afford.

The coffee pot left empty

when he needed something warm

to hold him together.

It was everything he carried

and nowhere safe to put it.

So, he put it on me.

Because I was small.

Because I was there.

Because I didn’t know how

to run or fight or question.

He told me it hurt him more,

that this was love,

that this was how fathers teach.

I believed him.

Children believe anything

that makes the world feel less dangerous.

But the truth came later

slow, heavy,

undeniable

when I realized he “loved” my mother

even more than he loved me.

The sound of his hand slapping

against her bloodied cheek echoed

through the walls

long after the house went still.

And now,

as a grown man,

I can finally say it:

none of it was love.

It was a storm that chose

the smallest bodies

to break itself against.

ROBERT MARGETTS