Cardamom

From loves first Fever to her Plauge...

I am angry because of my father; He's an unnaturally angry man. He's an angry man because his father was an angry man, who was angry because of his. It's a lineage of anger, of desolate abhorrence that churns from the depths of the heart, where love burns slow and unbidden, far from the surface. The women in their life have often fallen victim to this anger, a deep-rooted hatred that can only be accounted for through learned violence.

And, eventually, they all disappear, like the soft Spring breeze shifting into harsh Winter winds, where they come and go, too.

My father comes home from work that Sunday evening, pressed suit wrinkled in tune with his features, and slams the door so hard the house shivers. The vase in the corner cracks like a knuckle, and the shards crackle like a pin drop in silence. He scowls at the mess, and orders my mother to clean it up; Complains that the dirt will soil his polished dress shoes, just as she stains his reputation.

I am angry because of my father. He's a cruel man. He knows my mother was not born to fight, but is instead susceptible to control, like she was meant to be a soldier but hasn't consented to be enlisted into war. He doesn't know love, not like other fathers. He doesn't know late night ice cream trips after mother said no more sweets, or running through the rain to get to the car, or tucking his children to sleep. My father's never done any of that before.

He drapes his coat over the spine of the couch, a silent demand for my mother to hang it on the rack—unless she wish to be lashed and abused by screams over ridges in the pristine fabric she had ironed at the break of dawn, when sleep still clung to her eyelashes and her chest was heavy—and pulls out the chair at the head of the table. It screeches something awful.

My mother is there, bruised and tired and has dirt under her nail beds from gardening in the afternoon. My sister is there, sad and lonely and frowning harshly at the table like it's personally offended her. My brother is there, resentful and perfunctory and rubbing his thumb over his scabbing knuckles. I am there, heavy and sunken and fiddling with the cutlery like the noise could drown out the raging silence. However, even though we are all gathered together around the table, we haven't been a present family for a while.

My father complains the food is cold. My mother apologizes. The children stay silent.

My father complains the food is too hard to cut. My mother apologizes. The children stay silent.

My father complains he's had a long, hard day, and all he wants is a good meal. My mother apologizes. The children stay silent.

My father rises from his seat so quickly it scrapes against the wooden floor, dragging along the scuff marks that make an appearance every supper, in order to hit, puncturing the aberrant clemency that boils like a pot of water and reviving insecurity. My mother apologizes. The children stay silent, and get up to leave like we do every night.

The door is locked. My sister is in my arms. My brother is bouncing his knee on the farthest corner of the bed. My mother is in my father's arm, but not in a tender way, not in a marital way, not in the way she should be—not in the way I wish she would be. She is crying, still apologizing. Hit me, hit me, I know I deserve it. My brothers arms flex a little tighter over his knees, like he's bracing for the sound to reverberate throughout the desolate walls. My hands cup my sister's ears a little snugger.