transition from childhood to adulthood

childhood

    Think back to that moment and see it happen as if it were yesterday, because perhaps it was. Mom’s telling dad she wants a divorce, and the yelling begins. Although the yelling is occurring, the room feels still and concrete, we know mom’s not going to change her mind. Loud yet filled with silence. From the corner, of the already small apartment, emotions were buzzing from one figure to the next, as children watch in horror at the two people who were meant to be the foundation of the family, completely crumble.

    “Get in the car,” where are we going? “If he asks, don’t tell him where we are,” why are we running? New apartment, new school, new friends, same father. “Just wait, you turn 18 in a few weeks, then nothing will keep me out of this house.” Watch as he tears through the door and straight for the room he doesn’t know exists. Watch as he leaves, knife in hand, because he’s just as afraid as we.

Watch as mom comes home, and falls to her knees. “Mommy get up, I’m hungry, how come daddy keeps leaving?” Fourth child of five, noise is filling her head. She screams, “DAD STOP,” hands are pulled from moms neck, by sweet son of 18. Pulled from the house and left at the door, daddy's on his knees. Look around mom's room, and all you see is pain. Pain ripped through the bed, “If i can’t sleep in it, no man can.” Blood is covering the new bed, there’s no longer a baby on the way, mom keeps getting sicker, and no one's here to pray. A disease where the body is killing itself, it finds itself as a danger, therefore destroying the host.

    Growing up from those memories, doesn’t give you much time to think about things that are in no way comparable. You grow up completely molded from what occurred. Think, act, breathe. Kids write stories about watching their favorite show and it changing them, you write about your father and his hellish grin. You don’t age as gracefully, because do you even age? Children see those things, they don’t understand. Until one afternoon, freshman year, you’re sitting in class doing your work, and then it hits you. Was that me? Did i see that? Did i hear that? That’s all me.

    With unlimited sights, fourth child of five grew up, but didn’t realize she had until a later age. I saw what had happened, and I heard all that was said. I can recall all facial expressions and details from scenes I was part of, and if it were yesterday, perhaps it was.