That Was the Last

We were nine and seven then
cowering against mom like spindly scared calves
backed up against the enormous white stove,
mom’s protective arms Medieval shields of armor
across our tiny chests.
The enemy that night was dad swaying in the doorway,
the gun held loosely in his waving hand.
Every once in a while, he would swing it in the air
causing a tightening of mom’s arms,
a loosening of sobs.

That was the last between mom and dad.
We backed out of the driveway of the house
with the big white enormous stove
and shifted our focus from scenes such as that
to one of looking ahead----
moving into our new modern apartment without dad
where we would eat steak and shrimp every night
have lots of kids to play with.
It was kind of like Christmas and an adventure all rolled into one;
we would be different
bear the mark of Cain.
It was all too exciting,
this tragedy that fed my need for the dramatic,
my soul either too young or too shallow to feel the import
except for that image growing ever smaller as the car pulled away
my face watching from the rearview window
a shake of the head
a wave of the hand
disappeared into the white house with the enormous white stove.