I was two when my parents divorced.
My first memory is of my father
carrying my mother, slung over his shoulder,
down the hallway to their bedroom.
After he left the house, I walked from
the living room to their bedroom.
“Mommy, are you ok?”
She was crying.
After the divorce there was an emptiness.
I still feel it.
It took years before my father gained the
right to visit with my brother and I.
Once a week.
Eventually another man was there.
That’s when the real torture began.