My father was one to always wake up early, espesially in those winter sundays when the blueblack cold weather mirrored the bruises on my arms and back.
He would get dressed, leaving my mother underneath the warm blankets. And with his cracked hands that ached, from all the labor he did over the weekdays, he would go out and chop the logs for our fireplace.
I would wake up from the creaks the floor made when he passed my room to go outside. I'd lay in bed afraid, waiting for him to call my sisters and I. Finally when he would come back in and start the fire, my mother would be awake by then. She would be making hot chocolate and breakfast for us. When the warmth of the fire and the sweet smell of the warm drink filled the house my father would call for us. He would walk in my room and I would shut my eyes, but waking once he said to, somehow fooling him every time.
The reason why I would wake up so easily was, because I made myself sleep lightly so I would never miss his call and wake up late. I remember what happened when I slept in, because I didn't hear him, like it was yesterday. The fear and guilt in my mothers eyes as she watched him hit me, or the pain in my little sisters cry for him to leave me alone hurt me more that his hits, every time I think about it. Because, it's my fault he hit me. It's my fault that my sister was afraid. It's my fault my mother watched as she did. I did not obey and I learned my lesson.
After he called us to get up I got dressed fearing whatever would come today. I wish I was a girl sometimes, not because I like boys, but because if I were a girl I would never have to go through being afraid everyday I wake up. And even if I wake up afraid, I'm glad that I'm the one that gets hit, because even if I was a girl I would probably have a brother and I don't want him or anyone to go through what I go through. My father has never not once yelled at my sisters, they have it easy and I'm glad they do. I would never want my father to yell or hit them like he does to me, and even if he does this I cant find myself to hate him. Other people have it worse than me and I still love him and I wouldn't want anyone else as my father. Because, even if he speaks indiffrently to me with his words, and actions. He still gets up every morning and takes out the cold, he even polishes my church shoes.
I feel thats how he shows his love to me cause after all what did I know of love's austere and lonely offices?
