There once was a father who hurt his little girl. They lived in a house of screams. I took that little girl and drove out where the sun sets, where the mountains point to higher things. But the valleys were lower there, and the slopes too steep to climb. We smashed ourselves to pieces along the precipices, the highway of "higher things."
That was my first mistake
I took that little girl back to her father and sat while he paced the kitchen floor. He sneered and laughed at our failure, sunken eyes piercing a quiet daughter. Chin thrust out he grabbed her arm and shook her like a rag. Rising to my feet with fury in my throat and hands, I seized this man and threw him from his own house.
That was my second mistake
There once was a mother who sat quietly while a father hurt her little girl. She lived in a house of screams. I left that mother sitting at a kitchen table while her husband lay sprawled outside the door. I drove away without looking back or thinking about tomorrow, having done with "higher things."
That was my third mistake
No comments:
Post a Comment