My heart is racing. I can hardly catch my breath. The rush of adrenaline is nearly explosive. I manage to muster the courage to peek over the log and instantly hear “WHAP”! Suddenly all I can see is red. I swipe my eyes and look down at my tiny hand. Why am I bleeding? And why is there so much blood?
I look back up from my hand and realize both of my brothers are racing toward me. They have an alarming amount of fear in their eyes. I’m so shocked and confused I can’t even cry. One of them swoops me up and now we’re running. I’m bouncing around in his arms like a rag doll and, finally, the tears come.
We don’t even get across the bridge connecting the woods to our backyard when I hear my dad running toward us. I suddenly realize I’ve been screaming.
He demands to know what happened to my face, where the blood is coming from. My brothers are trying to tell him the neighbor hit me with a rock while he’s frantically trying to clean me up enough to find the source. As he wipes the blood from my vision I can see his fear turning to rage.
Once I’ve been bandaged Dad piles us in the truck. He puts me in the middle right next to him straddling the stick shift even though my brothers have jumped in the bed of the truck leaving the passenger seat vacant. Gravel and dust surround us as Dad hammers the gas peddle in reverse out of the driveway. I realize he’s going to make even with the neighbor. My little brain also wonders why driving there is remarkably longer than walking through the woods. Dad says something about a flying crow, which confuses me even more, but suddenly we hit gravel again.
Everyone is already out of the house. They must have heard Dad’s rage getting closer.
The truck stops abruptly and dad jumps out ordering me to stay in the truck. I see my brothers hop out and follow his lead straight to the man of the house.
I’m distracted by whimpering and realize there’s a boy my brother’s age crying. He looks like he’s been hit. I recognize him. He’s the last thing I saw before the red.
Dad is yelling at the neighbor man demanding whoever hit me with the rock be disciplined. Then, I watch dad notice the whimpering kid too. He sees what I see… an eye for an eye.
Next thing I know Dad appears to be calmly walking toward the man. “WHAP”, again, all I see is red, but this time it’s not running down my face.
Dad turns around and calmly walks back to the truck. On the drive home all I can think is how mad Mom will be that Dad did that. He must have heard my thoughts, because he looked down at me, straight in the eyes and said, “Don’t tell Mom.”
I must have been four or five years old when this happened. It’s my first memory of feeling protected, safe, adored, important, loved… albeit amidst pain, fear, & chaos.
30 years of life has reminded me over and over again how thoroughly soul changing and heart altering this moment was. It happened in an instant and lasted a lifetime.
My dad passed away just a couple short years after this. Due to a lack of years with him, I took this memory with me and used it as a foundation. Like what “protection” and “love” meant to me. Valuing loyalty above all else, protecting your family at any cost. I also spent many years believing most of the greatest acts of love are encompassed by chaos. But in the deepest depths of this memory, I believe my heart learned what it is to be kind, to do the right thing even when you have to put your own feelings aside, to be compassionate.
I still have the scar on my brow. To the boy who hit me that day, I forgave you the moment I saw you crying. I hope your childhood was better than what I imagine it to be. And, if not, I hope you found your way out to bigger and better places.