"Bastard"

It was my first memory, first clear memory at least. It was five minutes after three in the morning. The digital read-out on the clock looked pretty omnious then, the five turning into a six, porch light on, and Mom standing there with her arm slung around me, protecting me from the sting of the engine roaring away.

"Where Dad go?" I asked, and even though I was three years old and couldn't form a proper sentence, I could still understand her answer.

"He's not coming back," she said. Then she called him a bad name and told me never to say it. So I don't. At least not when I'm referring back to this memory. But when the orange lights turn the corner and gun out of sight, I always remind myself that it's okay to say it again.