My Father

I remember his scowl the most. It seemed a permanent fixture on his face. His sitting back in his lazy boy with his feet up scowling at the tv,  at my mother or at one of us.  

    

I remember how his feet smelled badly, and how when he knew it bothered you he’d wriggle and rub them together and laugh at your displeasure. 

I remember how Christmas was an excuse for him to drink early, putting vodka in his orange or tomato juice. I remember how he scoffed at every Christmas present my mother bought him saying that she only bought him tools and such so that he’d work around the house.

I remember his little contemptuous laugh whenever he upset one of us, and the smirk that said how much he enjoyed the power he held over you, over me. I remember his rage when I gave him back something of his own medicine, how he dragged me by my hair to throw me out the door to punish me, to get rid of me like he always said he would 

I don’t remember what I said to him, just his reaction.  

And I remember how hard  I fought back.