MY DAD HIT ME

My Dad hit me again today.

I never saw it coming. I never did.

We were walking along the riverfront when it happened. I was
complaining about the ice cream he'd just bought me. I wanted one in a
cup, not a cone. I didn't catch the look. I should have. You always
knew by the look that, if you didn't stop, he would hit you. But I
didn't. I just complained.

When he hit me, he knocked me to the ground. The ice cream fell off the
cone to the sidewalk where it began to melt. I looked at it for a
moment, my cheek numb where he'd hit me. I caught the look this time.
Though tears welled up in my eyes I didn't cry. I knew that if I did,
he'd give me something to really cry about.

I saw my sister watching me, thankful it wasn't her. An elderly couple,
walking past, were horrified at what they saw. My Dad glared at them
and kept on walking.

My Mom stopped. She told me that I'd asked for it. She looked at my Dad
with a certain apprehension in her eyes. She told me that I shouldn't
have complained.

I got up and started walking. With tears on my cheeks I bit into the
cone. I knew I had to eat it, even without the ice cream. My father,
now yards ahead glared back at me. I'd spoiled the afternoon.

I was seven, maybe eight. Now I am thirty-three.

I remember it every day.

I can't forget.