Photo by Sixteen Miles Out
Friday Nights
When there was a cockroach
in the room
my mother would do anything
to kill it.
She’d run a chair along the wall
so she could climb up and hit it
with the side of her fist.
Just once was enough
to flatten smash it scrape it
down to the floor
sweep it up and dump it
into the garbage.
She put everything she had
into the kill.
In those little victories
she could make up
for the brutalities of the world.
Our kitchen table was shoved up
against the white wall.
Word of warning:
it’s hard to see your future
when you’re staring at nothing.
Daddy was at the head
then me
then Mommy to my right
then Rosie
at the other end.
This was before Ruthie was born.
It was Manning Avenue—
No, it was Euclid—
I remember being older.
I don’t think he would
have strapped me
if I was three.
It’s always Friday night
when I think of my parents—
candles burning, two challahs, the bread-cover
my mother needle-pointed.
After the bruchas
came the chicken soup
the best over-cooked beef
I’ve ever tasted
and marrow like manna from Heaven—
I didn’t know it
but it was.
I sat with my elbow on the table
head in my hands.
I get up at 5:00 AM to put food on this table,
Daddy would snap his belt,
so you better eat.
And Mommy would yell,
She’s a little girl. She’s not hungry. Leave her alone.
He wouldn’t.
When I was twenty
I got him to stop.
I was moving out
and he didn’t want me to.
He slapped me across the face
so hard my cheek
still stings.
I slapped him back.
Both parents stood there
shocked that the daughter
would treat the father
that way.
How could you hit Daddy?
These memories are stray dogs
looking for a home.
I take them in
wash their bleeding bits
pet them and say,
there there
you didn’t know
any better.
Now they’re gone, and I pray
for them to protect us.
Keep us safe, dear Mommy and Daddy.
I cover my eyes
and whisper
into my hands
on Friday nights
always on Friday nights
my candles burning.
The Author
A United States/Canadian citizen, Terri Hanauer graduated with an honors degree in Theatre Arts from York University, Toronto.
She is an award-winning theatre director. She is also an actor, photographer and writer.
Stevie Wonder blessed her baby when she was nine months pregnant, magician Doug Henning sawed her in half when she was his assistant and the hugging saint, Amma, hugged her.
Her short story, “Blue Suede Shoes” was published in On The Bus, “The Cat” in Side-Eye Anthology.
She has just completed her debut novel, The Lightness of Rain.
Terri Hanauer