My first memory of you

My first memory of you
is of you standing
in the doorway,
looking nervous
and holding a cup of tea.

Fearful of Father,
you advanced,
still concerned,
frowning deeply with
your deeply entrenched frown.

You were already a worried child,
even at ten years old.

“You’re going to spill that!”
he said
but he spoke sharply,
as he always did
when he spoke to you.

And you
obediently
dropped
your cup.

“She’s clumsy!”
he announced
with disgust and satisfaction,
having proved himself
correct.

But you weren’t
clumsy.
You were
scared,
with good cause,
as we all were.

That was Sunday evening.

At recess on Monday,
you made a girl stand in a puddle
while you put stones on her head.

It made you feel better.

You were
as dysfunctional as
Father.