It’s funny how a photo can immediately transport you to the past. Suddenly I’m a little girl sitting at the dinner table with my mother sitting across from me, as my father stares me down to finish my food. Seated at the head of table, like a pope without mercy. I’m an only child for my mother. I blink and see my father standing in the kitchen, about 10 feet away, I’m in 5th grade. Kneeling in my chair, smiling eating breakfast in my gym clothes. I’m happy or as happy as I could be. I turn my head, my reflexes tell me to duck as I avoid the lime beamed at my head. My father is displeased with the “American” way I’m sitting. Hot chocolate spills on my shirt. Catholic school girls sit on their bottoms not on their knees. I cry in the chapel. I close my eyes, now I’m on my knees cleaning. Father is displeased with the way I’m vaccuming, “If the sex is no good at least you’ll have a clean home”.
But the sex was good. Wasn’t it? We were 25. You fucked me on this table. We played scrabble; you won. You always win. The floor was clean, I made sure of it. The couch. The chair(s). The counter. The carpet. The bed. The tub. The walls. My walls, were always clean. I bent and stretched, contorted my back, stripped and waxed my floors. I was yours. Just like my home, always inviting and ready to host, you and only you. To have and to hold. To love. To protect the one I loved.
But you didn’t love me. Not honestly or truly. You lied. Though you may have tried, your efforts were kind. But I still felt the chill. In your eyes— like my father. Always unsatisfied. Again, I’m transported to the head of the table. Where you laid me down to put me first. You always had room for dessert.
I open eyes. It’s my mother’s birthday. I give her flowers. Placed them in the spot you always put mine. Don’t worry about me baby, I’ll be fine.
I know how to survive.
Viva La Milliee 