A Place Called Home

The telephone rings... the rhythmic memories come flooding back with each shrill. It's not like most days... your cackle and sighs of yesterday, wrenching my stomach as the acid burns my throat. It's a reminder, under the guise of friendly, that tomorrow is my father's day of birth. Your contempt is clear and your memories askew... those darkened days still peek from under your skirt. I wonder how life must be, in a world that tailors the events of time to your liking... the best fit possible, no remorse or redemption needed. You remind me of the beatings and the hardships, but the blame is cast solely upon him... I remember a different story. Your crooked teeth gnashed in ire, with a smile of disdain, as he followed your every howl... the thrashings wouldn't cease until you were fattened on fear and quenched by blood. He was the instrument of destruction and the moppet of circumstance... you always stood front stage conducting the symphony of madness, pulling those strings tighter as the flesh ripped. Many times, has he come to me over the years, broken with guilt and sorrow for his deeds... but you, to this very day, deny any knowledge or involvement. Are the skies clear and blue... birds chirping as the creatures of the forest romp in delight? Perhaps I should book passage on the next marshmallow ferry... I could bring you a pound of flesh and a vial of tears in exchange for a moment of hospitality. As for tomorrow, I will heed your call... we will laugh and we will cry. I have an empty room down the hall... a similar chair faces the window, like the one before. I have saved it for you, Mother... no vengeance required, only memories are needed here.