Falling Up

     I did it.  I opened the box and showed all its ugly contents to my father.  I showed him the abuse, neglect, rape.  I showed him all my scars - having the barrel of a rifle shoved in my mouth and being told if I said anything he would kill my sister - then raping me with that same rifle. 
     I told him of being locked in the basement all day long or all night long.  I told him of welts on my back that bled in school; being sent to the nurses office.
     I told him everything - know what he said;
     "I just don't remember.  I was working a lot."
     "Are you kidding me? You were out drinking. You were not working.  When I spoke up I only got beat worse."
     "I just did not know it was so bad."
      Every piece of ugly I showed him he would shake his head and repeat his denial of any knowledge.  But his bitch wife would really like the plastic coffee table she "loaned" me last year. 
      I don't know where the coffee table is.  I do not know. 
     "Are you listening to me? How can you ask me about a piece of furniture, I am fighting for my life here?"
     "I am sorry I let you down."
     Let me down - I don't know what I thought he would say.  I was not trying to hurt him.  I just needed to get rid of that box.  I carried so very long.  I did what I was told - keep the peace.
      "Do you think you could find that plastic coffee table?"
     And on and on and on.
      So, today - four days later, I saw my father again.  Four days his bitch wife hounded him about that trailer park trash coffee table.  Four days of her bullying him and bad mouthing me.
     I brought some pictures I had come across of him with my sister.  I brought him some potatoes from Eileen's garden.  First words out of his mouth -
     "Any luck with the coffee table?"
      That was it.  That was the moment I knew I would never see my father again.  The moment when that freaking box was not mine anymore.  I am fighting for my life and you are worrying about a piece of plastic furniture.
     Today was a day when my father denied everything I said.  Everything I could prove.  Every tear I have shed.  How could I say he never put me first he had a lot of responsibilities, a lot of people who needed to be first - he was married.
      That is it. When he went on and on and on with his denials, accusing me of making it up - telling me that I went into the bastards bedroom because I wanted to.  Yes, a six year old wants to do that. 
      Hence, I am falling up.  It hurts, the bruises will take some time to heal - however, that box is no longer mine.  I am falling, but I am falling up.  And that is OK.  I will get on, get over. 
     Reckon it will be grieving the loss of my father.  To me he is gone.  I won't see him again.  I won't talk to him again.  And when finish getting the last bit of faith I had he might one day put me first - well, I will be falling up.
      I think falling up is flying - I will get there - I will fly.