How My Father’s Belt Saved Me

The worst thing I have ever said to my mother was I hate you.
Not because it was this absolute infinite truth, but because I did.
Hate is a strong word, like love, of course we love everything now,

we love movies and sneakers and food and furniture and God
exactly the same way. But in this instance, I really hated my mother
like when I stubbed my toe and I wanted to punch the coffee table and yell at it

until it was bad at staying in one place and holding coffee and magazines.
It expanded deep within me that I should hate her for not letting me
have my way. This was the correct response! Yes! Hate will shrivel her down

until she can only stay in one place and I will go to my friend’s house,
yes, the friend who is waiting for me with legos and video games and a mom
who cooks better dinner and is always happy to see me. Always! My logic

was gone once I heard my father’s footsteps
downstairs he was home from a place made of iron. Its only language was steel
and I could hear his belt buckle unfastening. I think it was that sound

when I decided to love my mother for the rest of my life
and I wanted to renew my vowels and my consonants. I wanted to go
on the honeymoon again back before I was born when I was this lovely thought God had

tucked inside her little womb

and I had no choice but to love my mother, like Christ loved his Church,
and Dad was closer. I started wailing for forgiveness when I heard him enter the house
and he forgave me, with his belt much like a shepherd’s crook.