And When Did You Last See Your Father? by William Yeams, oil on canvas (1878) via Wikimedia Commons
The thing Dad hated most was when my siblings and I
misbehaved in church: “Just wait 'til we get to the car,”
was what kept me awake during the long, balmy Sunday morning sermons
flanked by boring people with bad breath and moldy air
sifting through furry vents, sitting on benches upholstered over 50 years before—
a breeding ground for chewed gum, crumbs and dried up moths.
On the ride home, he’d always ask: “Do you know why I'm going to hit you?”
This formality was as unnecessary as the act of going to church in the first place:
my sin that day was taking the Eucharist, Jesus’s last meal
before He was fitted for His homecoming dress—Palestine’s version
of Sadie Hawkins dance where the sinners courted sin—
sip and nibble of sacramental grape juice and Saltine crackers
to heal my squealing guts, as dogs made of twisted balloons.
No better than Adam, I chose in the face of desire
to break my father’s heart, to embarrass him in front of people
he hated but wanted to convince he was good by placing
the forbidden apple core on his head as its cider ran down his face.
In truth, in truth, most of the time, he wouldn’t even hit me.
We’d get home, and he’d go back to weaseling money out of Mom
and squandering it on things that were smokable or fit in a syringe,
on what wasn’t bread. The little money he made came from
selling our family’s things: Mom’s jewelry, TV and VCR,
my Pokémon card collection, and letting his friends “borrow”
my social security card or asking me to pee in a cup for his buddy,
“Just this one time,” he promised. “Don't be stupid. Don't you know
I can give you a lot of money?” he'd say to try to entice me
to give him these things. But like Jesus, who relinquished
his mutilated body on the cross—His blood smeared on His sweaty,
sun-burnt skin, glistening like butter on toast—I too was a boy
who would always forgive his wicked father and pay for his sins.
The few times Dad would hit me, he’d do it without saying a thing—
quick and dry like a Roman flogging. The sound of finely-crafted
Mexican calf leather stone-skipping red on tightly squeezed flesh
rippled in my ears, dousing my spine with shivers. The afterburn
embraced me from thorny crown to nailed foot as I knew
we’d have communion afterward and his interest in me, resurrected.
So, sometimes, especially on Sunday mornings, I’d sin on purpose.
Jose Oseguera is an LA-based writer of poetry, short fiction and literary nonfiction. His writing has been featured in Emrys Journal, North Dakota Quarterly and Sonora Review. His work has also won the Nancy Dew Taylor Award, placed 2nd in the 2020 Hal Prize Contest and been nominated for the Best of the Net award (2018, twice in 2019) as well as the Pushcart (2018, 2019 and 2020) and Forward (2020) Prizes. He is the author of the poetry collections “The Milk of Your Blood” (Kelsay Books, 2021) and “And This House is Only a Nest” (Homebound Publications, 2024).