With the usual sickening thud, nearby chairs crumbles on Mama’s petite frame. This night is good, the loud thuds is not accompanied by the several slaps and kicks that sent several of Mama’s protected babies rushing out in pools of blood.
Wearing his bedeviled look, Papa staggers drunkly into the night, leaving Mama at the mercy of pain, blood stealing through vents of reopened scars, adorning her sprawled body.
Afterwards, Mama–weak and worn-out leads me to my room–currents of unspoken words flowing silently.
She sings me to sleep with words I know are lyrics from Papa’s lullaby.