In the morning it was as if it never happened.
I put my ear to the floor to hear what my parents were screaming to each other just one floor below, my father's bass voice carrying the violent strains of an anguished song with a treble refrain following after from my mother. All was muffled except the words "what's wrong with you" which I could hear only because they were shouted louder than the rest, by my father.

With a desk chair leaning just under the door knob of my bedroom door I doubted that my father's rage could find its way to me. Afterall, I was in the room in the new addition. My father would have to pass by both my sisters' and my brother's room before finding me. Rage like his didn't wait and I figured he'd try someone else's door first - but he never did. My father directed all his rage at my mother.

I left the chair there just the same and climbed back into bed. Knock knock knock I heard fainly through the wall next to my pillow. Knock knock scrape, tap tap tap, I answered with my index finger. It was my twin asking me by her knock if I could hear the fighting, too. "I love you, A-dri-ennne", I sounded out with three slower taps followed by three stoccato taps. She replied with the same rhythm because my name has three syllables, too.

I was smiling now and thought she might be, too, sharing the comfort of knowing we weren't really alone. Sleep would help me forget and drown out the sound that still floated through my floor filling my room.

I welcomed the sleep and surrendered to it.

It always happens like this.
That’s what I’m thinking at this moment. It’s not that I don’t have compassion; it’s just that I’m tired of having her problem invade my life, like a returning mould on the shower door. Hadn’t I done a better job of cleaning that away?

I remember being five and it was the first time a friend came over the house to play. She was all mine for two endless hours. I couldn’t fathom that we could play for that long. I had received a glow-in-the-dark game for Christmas and I couldn’t wait to light up the ghosts and retreat with her to the closet and play. I pulled my desk chair to my closet and climbed up, holding on to the unsteady door for support. The game was just beyond my reach but I managed to catch the end of the box with one small jump. I brought the game down and carried it to my bed purposely taking my time to the delight of my friend. “Open it”, she squealed. At just the right moment I flipped off the cover only to discover empty but still runny beer cans hidden inside.

A sickly sweet smell reached our noses and I could see that each of the pieces was coated with a sticky, dirty film. My magical ghosts were hideous and disgusting, even ghostly, and I quickly covered up the game. Somewhere inside I must have known who had hidden the cans in there, and why, because I didn’t say anything to anybody. I just stuffed the game back on the shelf where it stayed unopened until I threw it away. I can’t remember if the girl ever came back to play.
That’s how things happened in my house. We’d be enjoying life and all of a sudden her problem interrupted everything and after the distraction I’d stand there, numb and bewildered, wondering what was I doing before all of this happened?

It was ironic, really, because we were sort of the “royalty” of my small hometown. No one would have believed the things that really went on behond closed doors.

I don’t know where the little bird flies

When its wings lift it
High up into the skies
The air, warm and still
Even the smallest of creatures follows its will

My thoughts are like the bird
Seeking to land
Caught up in the wind
Hovering over dry land

You can’t stop the thought
From taking flight
From coming full circle
From facing the night

The thought needs the freedom
To roam where it wants
To answer questions
To visit old haunts

A caged bird sings but does it dream?
Its songs must get old, it’s memories sting
Thoughts fly away
And reach your greatest height

Kernel of truth begin to take flight!