Behind our door hides another reality, our mother’s.

She metes out everything, including our punishments. They come in precise intervals and the mode has to fit the perceived crime.

Electrical, then The Cord. Clothing related, one of our own belts. Anything nature related requires selecting our own Willow Switch. When she thinks we lie, which is subjective, it calls for two twenty-pound bibles.

Our mother takes great pleasure in using everyday objects as her implements of torture. The Spoon, thirteen inches of wood by three inches wide, is used for food related corrections.

Tonight we have to leave; We all noticed the knife. Not the knife specifically, but how she wielded it after she wielded The Spoon. We watched her gently tossed the salad with the same instrument that split our lips, bruised our legs, and welted our arms.

In slow motion, we watch her grip the carving knife and offer a slice to our father. She stares us down, daring us to say anything to him about how our summer day really went.