About Time

Red threaded through the whites of his eyes as his grip around my throat tightened. His determined face blemished by anger was again going to have the last say. My breath, gasping, choking on the last few particles of air, eyes flickering between darkness and light. His teeth gritted and exposed like a rabid dog came close enough to bite as I lay unable to move, his knees forced down upon each fragile arm, his bottom perched heavily on my emptying chest. It’s just me and him on the kitchen floor; the dust and a solitary pubic hair catches my eye before I eventually pass out.

My father wasn’t always like this. When I was born, my mother told me he was so proud of his only son that he spent the morning introducing me to all the neighbours who knew him well and respected him. He would spend every minute he could with me, kicking a football, teaching me how to tie my shoelaces and ride a bike. My mother would say, "Oh John you spoil him rotten” but he’d just smile, throw me onto his shoulders and take off down the street, his athletic hands gripping mine tightly making ambulance noises while I laughed until all my breath escaped, warming the back of his thick neck.

My mother loved him as much as I did, her eyes watched him watching me, her arms folding around his neck when she wanted some affection. He was kind and loving to us both and gentle with all creatures. He’d teach me how to remove the snails and worms carefully from the pavement after a downpour, placing them on the nearest wall or grassy area out of harm's way; I always looked forward to the rain.

I remember him starting to drink heavily when he came back from the Gulf War in the year 1991. I was eight and excited to finally have my father back home. On the morning of his return, I crouched like a nosey cat on the windowsill peering out waiting to catch a glimpse of his smiling face. My mother seemed agitated as she quickly plumped up all the cushions and set her hair high on her head in a bun without looking in the mirror. She told me once that my father had liked it in that style, remarking that she reminded him of Audrey Hepburn in ‘Breakfast at Tiffany's. My mother, of course, had laughed it off, being somebody that wasn’t good at receiving compliments but always good at giving them.

Our house had been empty for the last year and seemed to grow in size, either that or my mother’s already tiny frame had become smaller. It was about time my father replenished the space with his laughter once again; my mother and I had no way of predicting what would follow in the next few years.