I never liked going on long car rides when I was a kid. Being trapped in the back of a moving vehicle made be feel claustrophobic. Not being able to see out of the windows clearly, didn’t help. We didn’t have car seats to boost us up, to make us tall enough to see the world wiz by. My brother and I were forced to endure hours of Wally Crouter rambling on about the weather or the news of the day. The fact that I remember his name all these years later, should verify how traumatized I was listening to CFRB. If I never hear “Raindrops keep falling on my head” ever again, it’ll be to soon. The clouds of smoke that suffocated me and induced coughing fits and asthma attacks,were the absolute worst part of the car ride. I never understood why my Father couldn’t at least roll down the window a crack.

I did enjoy however, the frequent stops to pick Lilacs at the side of the road. They were my Mother’s favourite. To this day, I think of her every time I smell a lilac.

My Mother was our rock. She was a beautiful, loving, patient and kind woman. In my eyes she was magical. She made our home a warm a fuzzy place to be. She was always there. To cook us meals. Put Bandaids on our knees. Read us a book or cuddle in bed on a Friday night with chips and koolaid and Sonny and Cher. She was my world. I adored her. She never raised her voice or got cross. She was the pilar of strength and grace.

My Father was somewhat of a stranger to me. He floated in and out of our home. Usually away on “business” trips or at late night “meetings”. He wasn’t a patient man nor was he tolerant of much. We were expected to be on our best behaviour, not too loud or boisterous, no horseplay or whining. Speak when spoken to. He was at times intimidating. Definitely an imposing character. Then there was the part of him that I was drawn to, everyone was. The outgoing, larger than life personality. Quick with a joke. Life of the party. He would pick us up, throw us in the air. He would put on one of his crazy costumes and throw us a funny hat to join in the charade.

That was the Daddy that sang silly songs or told goofy stories as we were driving along. He would be our tour guide and make up all kinds of tall tales about the people and places we passed.

Although I dreaded the car sickness and burning eyes and lungs on those rides, I relished the destinations. We would often be headed to our Grandparents where we would meet up with our cousins. Or we would be off to some other place of wonder and excitement , the museum, the zoo, a friends house or off for a weekend camping.

Most importantly, these trips were almost the only times we were all together, as a family. The rare opportunity to spend time with my Father.

These trips were an adventure, an escape.

They were the highlight of my life at 6 years old. Until…

The day my Father punched my Mother in the face.

We were just blocks from home. I hadn’t even settled in for the journey yet. I was still adjusting my seat belt, fussing with my doll.

I was faintly aware of the argument brewing between my parents. It wasn’t uncommon. I felt the tension between them but I was sure it would be over any minute. My Mother was an expert at defusing his temper. She would be agreeable and speak quietly and calmly. Mom always kept the peace and protected us. She wouldn’t let anything ruin family time.

I never found out what started my Father’s fury that day. Never knew why Mom couldn’t tame the beast this time.

I only remember the sound of my Father’s knuckles slamming against my Mother’s jaw and her head bouncing off the window. I saw his fist hesitate mid air before he brought it back to the steering wheel. I saw the blood rain down from the corner of my Mother’s mouth. I heard her groan. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion and I remember feeling dizzy and scared and shocked. I couldn’t breath. There was a rock in the pit of my stomach. I remember turning back to my Father and seeing the back of his head bob up and down as he spewed his venom on my Mother. “Bitch, stupid, stupid bitch”. I watched as droplets of spit chased his words through the air. I had never heard those words before. They were so ugly and angry.

Someone must have hit the fast forward button, because everything became hurried and urgent and violent. The car came screeching to a stop. My Mother’s door flew open and then mine. She grabbed my arm and pulled me out and yelled for my brother to slide over and get out too. She was panicked. Her eyes were wide with fear and her voice was shrill and loud. Her distress frightened me even more. I was so confused. Who were these people? What was happening?

The car squealed away, the wheels shooting gravel and dust in our faces as my Mother pulled my brother and I to her. Clutching us close in desperation. The three of us sobbing in each others arms.

That was the day, the moment, my innocence was snatched away. The blissful ignorance of my childhood had been abducted by my own Father. It was reaching for me, from the back window of our Family car.

I learned right then, on the side of the road, that Mommy couldn’t make everything better. She couldn’t always keep us safe. 

[This is what I wrote originally for the @Vincent_Cross challenge about meeting Death, but I couldn't edit it down to 100 words. The poem mentioned in this story, posted below, ended up being my challenge submission.]

Death was, and was not, what I expected. The dark flowing robe, the hood shadowing a gleaming skull - it was all there. The eyes were a surprise though. On close inspection, the dark sockets contained galaxies of stars, whirling slowly in the black void. But, what I definitely didn't expect was the feminine vibe - not sexy, but motherly.

We stood side by side over my peacefully reposed body, a book held loosely in my hand.

"Damn, now I'll never know how it ends."

"IT WOULD SEEM, FOR YOU, IT ENDS ON PAGE 178," said a voice like granite mountains colliding, with the hint of a melodic echo.

"Are you a woman?"

"LIFE IS THE CREATIVE. I AM THE RECEPTIVE. SOME CONSIDER THOSE MALE AND FEMALE FORCES, RESPECTIVELY; BUT AS TO YOUR QUESTION, I HAVE NO ANSWER."

"Did you have to kill me now? I have so much left to do!"

"I DO NOT KILL. SINCE YOU SEE ME AS FEMALE, THINK OF ME AS A MIDWIFE, ATTENDING YOUR BIRTH INTO THE NEXT PHASE OF YOUR JOURNEY."

Death chuckled - mighty boulders crushed together at the ocean's bottom.

"A WRITER ONCE REFERRED TO ME AS LIFE'S DARK WIFE."

I recognized the words. They were from my poem of the same name.

"IT IS TIME."

"But-"

"IT IS TIME."

Death pointed a bony finger at something behind me. I felt a hot dry desert wind at my back. Turning, I saw sands stretching into the distance. A glow on the horizon could have been a setting or rising sun - or perhaps the lights of a city. Interesting.

"What's out there? Is it heaven, or...the other place?"

"I DO NOT KNOW. I CANNOT KNOW. IT IS ONLY FOR YOU."

Death slowly faded away. Alone in the desert, I sighed. Then I began to trudge toward the light.

-DeRicki