memories

It was nineteen eighty something and we were eating dinner at the counter at the bar and my mother was on the other side where she always sat where she did the cooking on the other side of the table of the counter of the bar my mother over there eating and serving my father and me and my brothers and never getting a moment’s peace and doing all the dishes too and my little brother’s first memories of having his face smashed into the screen door by my father because he had spilled his milk on the counter at the counter where we sat in silence while he choked on his peas that he didn’t want to swallow as my father’s fist cracked hard against his back and he ended up on the floor choking and spitting up peas and the screen door was all dented in the shape of his little body and my mother was on the other side of the table sitting miles away and we were all silent at the table sitting at the bar on our barstools my feet dangling there way up high from the ground from the blood-red fake-brick tile floor and nobody was saying anything until my father said to finish our peas that they were some damn good peas and everyone ate their peas and didn’t say a word…