Charlie's Memory

 One of his earliest memories was his Mom lying half through the doorway her brunette hair splayed over the hardwood floor. The bedroom light was on but her torso and head lay in the shadow of the hall.

  She looked like she was sleeping in this irrational place. He knew different. His father had come home after a road trip. He had been happy to see his handsome, grinning Dad in his white shirt with the starched collar. The clip-on tie lay loose to the tie clip halfway down the front. Dad smelled like cologne and something else Charlie couldn’t quite place.

 Dad would say hello to Charlie, buss his thick red hair,  then go back to the bedroom. Mom would follow from the kitchen. It never took long for the whispers to start to rise. Before long they’d be yelling. Usually his father would stomp out, the taps on his spit shined shoes clipping along the slick  waxed floor.

 This time Charlie had heard a slap then his Mom had fell half into the hall. Dad stepped over her mumbling as he left.

  The door slammed and he was gone, so Charlie went to her. He knelt at her side … the carefully ironed pleats of her dark patterned skirt just at his feet. At first her eyes were closed but after a moment they pursed and then peered slitted up at him.

“It’s ok, Honey. Momma is just resting. Give me a minute and I’ll fix you something to eat.”

  Charlie waited. She was prettier than other Moms. It made him proud. He didn’t see his father much. He supposed that was best. Best for his Mom, anyway.