I have never heard my mother apologize.
We lived without the warning lightning brings of thunder,
each evening waiting, wondering,
who would fall victim to her rage tonight?

The piercing shriek of my mother bursts through the door,
shattering the precarious silence,
for this house wears anger
like a second skin.

The walls resume their dance to the beat
of my mother's fists.
But better wood than flesh,
better broken glass than broken teeth.

Instinct drove my body shrinking against the wall,
desperately trying to fade into the safety of shadow
before my mind could even register her screams.
My brother had returned.

I can still hear the accusations hurled at him in greeting,
because he didn't tell her he was back.
Seeking to surprise us, he had come home that night,
only to be welcomed with sneers and blame.

He snapped.

My brother's tongue joined the fray,
edged with the venom from years of bottled rage
and the familiar symphony of fury
resonated between these trailer house walls.

I flinch, feeling the front door bury itself in the plaster,
the indignant screech of the screen door following close behind.
Wide-eyed, vision blurred with unshed tears and my chest tight with fear,
I listened.

Sharp in its conviction,
my brother's voice cut through the din
as he gave our mother one last chance.
"If I walk out this door, I'm never coming back."

In harmony with the vibrations of this cracked foundation,
my brother's words still echo in my memory
and I grieve in the silence.