I was ten years old on that old farm in Georgia.

My mother died when I was three,
leaving behind three girls for my daddy to take care of.
He ‘took care’ of us good.
When mama died he took to the drink.

Sitting day in and day out
on that old gritty brown chair
pouring poison down his throat.

I’ll never forget that one night
when the wind outside was cryin' out
to no one particular

and the unforgiving cold
slithered in like a mist
through the cracks of our wooden house.

Daddy had been talking in his sleep again
to our mama,
which was odd to me cause she was dead,
but that never stopped him.

We knew then,
my sisters and me,
that he was drunk,
like always,
but when he started hollering
and crying for mama to come back
we knew that he was done out.

We huddled together
in my older sister, Mary’s bed,
while she lulled me and Haley to sleep
rubbing our hair back,
singing a sweet lullaby
that I distantly remember our mama singing to us.

That’s when it happened.
Daddy shouted out “Martha!”
real loud
as if he could hear her voice
and came running to where we were sleeping in my sister’s arms.

“Martha.” Whispered daddy.
He looked at Mary, eyes only a slit height open
before he leaned against the wall waiting.

“Why don’t you leave these girls alone to there bed and come on in with me?”


Mary, I remember
turned white as the moon on a clear night.
Her clutch on Haley and me
became like iron
as she stared with wide eyes at daddy.

“Not tonight Don.” She said shakily.