It will be alright

I am three.

My mother tucks me under her arm like her purse

And runs into her room,

Thundering footsteps follow in pursuit,

But we win the race.

Only when we are safe behind the locked door does my mother

Free me from her embrace.

She shoves shoes on my feet.

BANG!

A fist collides with the door and my mother squeezes her eyes closed,

As if she could make us disappear.

I want her to tell me that everything is alright, that daddy is just upset.

But when she opens her eyes I know that she won't say that.

Her eyes tell me something else.

Her eyes are full of fright, and they tell me that this is not okay.

Most husbands do not scream at the mother of their children,

The woman who should be the love of their life.

Most husbands don't throw tantrums and break things.

But my dad isn't most husbands, so I tell her what I so desperately want to hear;

"Mommy," I say, "it's okay, it will all be all right,

When daddy calms down he will say sorry and that

He only yelled because you made him.

He only put a hole in the door because you had the audacity to question his authority

Because in this house he is in charge, his permission is mandatory."

I am eight.

This time my mother holds my brother in her arms.

She stands in front of me like a force field,

and although my father stands a foot taller than her,

I know,

I know that she will protect us.

I beg him to let us leave.

"Dad!" I cry, "I'm going to be late!"

Still he refuses to let us go.

He uses his body to block the door,

not allowing my mother to bring the three of us

to my school's rollerskating event.

But we were were already skating.

Skating on the thin ice that is my father's temper.

My mother and I held on to my young brother's hands

with a death grip.

We tried so hard to keep them from slipping,

because if they slipped than they might crack the ice,

And an eruption of rage was sure to slip through even the smallest of cracks.

When their unpracticed feet slipped

we fell with them,

But we made sure that we fell harder.

Because then we would be the ones who would get hit by his wall of rage,

But we knew that it would all be alright.

I am thirteen.

The boys are fighting... again.

My father intervenes and immediately it is the youngest who gets hit

by a tidal wave of anger.

It slams into him like a brick wall and knocks the wind out of him.

He tries to hide the tears in his eyes

as he runs up stairs to his room to lock the door and hide.

My mother is no longer around to protect him.

She had finally had enough and she broke my father from her family tree.

She is lucky enough to be able to so easily snap that branch,

us kids aren't so lucky.

Now our family tree is split into two,

by a lightning rod made of the pulsing energy,

that only a combination of love and anger can make.

Every other weekend we have to leave the protection of our mother.

Realising this I step up.

I am determined.

I need to be the strong super hero that my mother has always been for me.

I follow my brother into his room.

Together we take sanctuary inside the locked room.

BANG!

A fist beats on the door

I jump and close my eyes wishing that I could be anywhere else.

When i open them my brother is staring at me,

begging me for reassurance.

But I can't give it to him because I have none to give.

I have been searching for some for years,

but there doesn't seem to be any in sight.

My brother hugs me and he says,

"Don't worry it will all be alright."