She came into the apartment, sunny and open, with groceries in both arms. She bumped the door shut with her hip and came through the walkway that led to the kitchen, setting the brown paper sacks on the gleaming marble counter top. “Honey?”
She could hear slightly muffled giggling coming from the balcony just off the bedroom and went towards the sound, her heart hammering in her chest the closer she came. The two French doors were open and the gauzy curtains danced in a light breeze, giving her occasional glimpses of her husband, laughing, and tossing their young son up in the air, catching him in his big hands. The baby was giggling like mad. She wanted to scream.
“Get him off the balcony!” she cried, darting across the room and snatching the baby from her husband’s arm. He looked wounded, and the baby began to cry big, confused tears. She didn’t care. The apartment was eight floors up, and every time she saw him tossed into the air, she could just see him fall… over the edge and to the pavement below. “Don’t you ever do that again.”
~
The years rolled by and as their son grew, and the father grew too. He grew in resentment, and malice. He grew in his desire for spirits, and late nights. His hands grew hard, and they grew fond of slaps and punches. Their son grew, becoming broad of shoulder, deep of chest, and watchful. He had endured his own bruises when he was small, but after a time his father had realized that he was too large, and had turned his attentions to his small, protective mother. Gone was the man who had tossed him, laughing in the sun, on the balcony. Gone was his Daddy.
~
She came into the apartment, quietly, softly, and set her things down in the hall. She took off her shoes – he hated a dirty carpet – and hung up her coat in the closet. She crept through the walkway, waiting for his voice to boom from one of the rooms, or for the feel of his iron hand around her arm. She was always doing something wrong that required his correction. At least he had stopped putting his hands on their boy. That was her one comfort, that he was safe and whole.
She heard giggling from the balcony.
Moving towards the sound, she saw the two French doors open, saw the curtains rippling in the breeze, and for a moment, she saw her husband, young and happy, tossing their son into the air again, and heard him giggle with delight. For a moment, she was afraid again of losing the child, of watching him topple over the railing and to the hard pavement below.
Her son held the father in his arms, and she only just then realized how big and strong he had become, and how frail his father had grown. He had seemed so large when he was hitting her, yelling at her… but he was so small, so small. He fit in his son’s arms like a baby, and lay there as if sleeping, the wind ruffling what little thin hair remained on his scalp. Her son giggled, looked over his shoulder to see his mother in the doorway, and winked. He approached the railing, and tossed his father into the clear afternoon sunshine.
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Credits to: http://mladyelle.tumblr.com/ /
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