It's days like today

First grade.
I'm trying to sleep,
and I hear a crash
across the hall.
I see the shadow,
and I know just what that was,
you threw your heavy glass bottle,
and mom just happened to be in the way.

So you left for two days,
and mom cried for two days,
and my sisters and I went to school unfazed.
So you thought.

In second grade, we built our own house.
But you , you were left behind.
And we'd visit on weekends,
if you were around,
most of this time
you'd sleep.

There was a breaking point that year,
when you pulled yourself out of the bathroom by your arms,
tomato faced,
bleeding sweat, pouring tears,
barf bucket in tow,
and you begged her not to take us.
You knew she'd take us.
We saw you less,
and less,
until the court orders told her,
she had to let us go.

You'd fight on the phone each time we were there,
a whole day was to long to watch your 0wn kids.
After the screaming match,
which we never understood,
you'd tell us how crazy she is,
and we believed you.

Because we were oblivious to what kind of a user,
a manipulator, a deceiving liar,
you actually were.
How could we believe you were an abuser?
So you thought.

In fifth grade,
after making it half way up the dreaded rope in gym,
I stopped at the water fountain on my way back to class.
And so did another boy,
our neighbor,
and do you know what he said to me?
He said
"hey, I saw them taking him away today, will he get to keep the money?"

He walked away laughing,
and so did I.
In an attempt to hide
what seemed
boiling hot
tears.

And those next five years,
you missed my middle school graduation
you missed my sweet sixteen
you missed my first day of high school.

And when the phone would ring,
I could always sense if it was you.
For the first time,
I knew exactly what you wanted me to do.
So you thought.

As soon as the monotone recorder came on,
telling me which button would lead me to you,
I hit the button,
the other button,
and I would hang up on you.
Because you hung up on us.

And when you came home,
I never wanted to leave you alone,
and you were different,
and you loved us,
and we loved you.

For a few months.

By tenth grade,
you stopped kissing the ground we walked on,.
And it's days like today,
when I'm putting on my lavender princess dress,
when I wish the court papers weren't in place
to tell you
to stay away.

It's senior year, Dad,
and tonight is prom,
and in a few months
I'm going away.
And you won't be able to catch up on all the lost time,
and you won't be able to apologize,
and you'll realize,
you left me,
and I'm doing just fine,
without you.
So you think.