My father used to hurt me.
Sometimes for doing something wrong. Sometimes for not doing anything. A magazine, a bottle, his fists, he used whatever was handy.
I think he loved me. Somehow beneath all the anger there was love. Maybe that’s what everyone tells themselves. It’s what my mom told me after he died a year ago.
She was always so blind.
I remember putting him in the ground. It rained that day, and it was hot. Big dollops of water muddying up the grave. And when we came home, things were better.
I think he loved me. At least I tell myself that.
Because each night since he died, I can hear him calling my name from far away.
And his voice is getting closer.