once my mother told me a story
of my characteristic disobedience
small rebellion

i took something my brother wanted

there was always something
my brother wanted

my father followed me from the house
grabbed me by my hair
took the item
gave it to my brother

my mother said
“if i had not left when i did
things would have gotten much worse
for you”

she told me stories
of my father’s sisters
wearing their bruises to school like badges
of their characteristic disobedience

i remember my father’s hands
so rough with me, when i was disobedient

i once wore a hand-sized bruise
to a girl scout meeting
purple and sore on my back

i think of the version of myself
who exists in a reality
where my mother did not leave

i think of my brother
tall and my father’s pride
never a mark on him

i think of his disobedience
and how my father
only laughs