Love is Not Black and Blue

Blows from my father beating my mother was a sound of my childhood.

Mother was tall, brunette, and sometimes black and blue. 

I often woke up to a violent fight in the other room.

These facts shaped the way I saw myself, marriage, family, and how life worked. 

After my father moved out, life was essentially the same as it had been with him,
 except for one difference -- I no longer feared my home. 

I didn't worry Daddy would kill Mother. 

I didn't run in mud and thunderstorm from gunshots in the night.

In my bed, I heard train whistles and the tv in the living room. 

I would wake up to breakfast. 

You deserve peace.


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