i tell her, “these things echo through time.”
and we look at our daughter and talk of the little i remember of my father, the four or five memories of him beating my mother, throwing me aside, the night he raped her, the feel of his palm on my cheek as i was terrified of him. these scant moments have circumscribed me, defined certain limits and obviously have opened doors within me that i might have been better off if they were closed. perhaps it is those open doors i fear the most and pray that i am never the one who opens them for my children.