By Amberdawn Collier

Much of my childhood is a haze of tears.

Specific memories open long closed

wounds, make my vulnerable.

There was always a variety of weapons,

so I never got bored.

Hand, belt, sticks, rocking horses

broken in half are good in a pinch.

But before, during, and after, there was

always the words, pouring out

of my father's mouth like acid,

mixing with my tears to make me

vomit. I would clean that up on

his order, try not to gag and throw

up again. I rarely succeeded.

Still, I loved him. Worshipped him.

I was continuously trying to impress him.

One day he mentioned that he loved

the taste of ripe, juicy pears.

A light bulb switched on in my brain.

I alone knew where the sole pear tree on

our 99 acre farm existed.

I set out with grand ideas -

I would pluck the perfect pears,

lay them in tribute before him.

He would kiss my forehead, call me

"Princess."

The pear tree was scraggly,

it stood solitary on a large hill

far from the farm house.

At its base grew many brambles

and thorns. They tore at me

clothes, but I was a country

girl and I climbed on.

To my dismay, the tree only

bore fruit on the top most branches.

I went higher till I was above the

world, able to see my house, the

barns, everything. I reached

out for the first pear and caught

it. Stuffing it firmly in my pocket,

I extended myself for another.

And I fell, like a star, quickly

landing with a burning impact.

I lay still, my hip exploding in pain.

But I was the daughter of an alcoholic,

so I picked myself up and limped home,

cradling the two golden pears.

When I got there, he was sitting at the

table, beer in hand. I offered

my prize, beaming. With glazy eyes,

he tossed them aside.

I never eat pears