In the early seventies, we'd moved from rural Ontario and into a big city to have a better life. We settled in a home that was decent compared to where we had been living. I imagine that life was difficult for my mother. She was a single parent with a large brood and in love with a man who wasnt the father to any of us. Being young, one didnt understand the state of poverty, or the stress of such a large responsibility of starting over with a big family. It wasnt my world and nor should it have been. My job was to be a kid, to learn, to keep my space, to play and get to know the world. Unfortunately, my world wasnt made up of gum drops and fairy tales. Summer of 73, was the when I learned that children werent the only kids that got beatings and spankings. In fact, I learned that love can kill or make you want to kill. We lived in a little house, the back yard was pressed against the backdrop of train tracks, beyond that was an abandoned leather processing factory. It was a great place to play. No adults to bother kids and there was a drum there that one could hop into and get spun around. It was like a having our private county fair. I imagine that was where they washed the leather because it had an odor of dirty wet cows and a slight putrid smell of blood in the air. I didnt recognize the smell for what it was then, but as I became an adult and visited a slaughter/leather processing area, the familiarity burnt into my nasal passages. When youre a child, its difficult to process experiences, days and time, it seems that we tend to remember the darkest memories more than the good ones. I was in the bedroom when I heard a bang. I had already experienced violence before, I felt like my skin was on fire. I didnt want to look, but I had to. I ran to the bedroom door and opened it. I dont know how much time went by before I had reacted, but it was enough to fuse a memory that I would carry for the rest of my life. My mother who was petite was floating in the air pressed against the wall; reminding me of the images of angels that were being shown to us in Sunday mass. Her feet dangled, toes wiggling; her hands holding on to the fore arms of her lover. There were no words spoken as she was moved up the flower patterned wallpaper. Then she gasped. I ran towards the firewall with intense anger. I ripped and clawed at his clothes. I pushed and shoved nothing. Mothers glassy eyes looked down at me. I didnt know what to do. I felt like an overly inflated balloon that was going to burst open and thats exactly what I did. I screamed at the top of my lungs, STOP! I tore my own clothing, buttons exploding in different directions. I hit myself, I hit my chest. I wanted to kill him. Her lover seemed shocked by my behavior and stepped back.

He let her go, mother collapsed into a heap of tangled remains, just like the knotted leather strips wed find at the factory, she looked to like there was no end and there was no beginning, just a goop of something that didnt resemble my mother. Did I fragment then, I dont know, but what I did know was that I became someone else, not the terrified little girl who just witnessed her mother getting the life choked out of her. I was a shell. Her lover disappeared leaving me with a frightened woman. She reached out to me and I helped her up. Her hair was a mess, her neck was red, and her usually creamy face was puffy and much too pink. Grabbing me, pulling and pleading for me to come with her, we ran through the living room, out the back kitchen, down the stairs, through the lawn and into the ditch along the tracks. We stayed there watching the house and watching for movements. My head pounded loudly and I was angry that we were outside when we should be inside. I was angry that we were safer in the shadows than we were in our own house.She held me or I held her, or maybe we just held each other, something was very off, she wasnt a parent anymore, she was a frightened, apologetic young person. She promised that things would get better. She stroked my hair as I clung to her clothing. The night drew in and brought in more courage to return to the house. It was like the incident never happened, it was never spoken about. Truth is elusive to those who wish to stay safer in the shadows.