The Whipping Tree Poem by Adrianne Quinlan

Grandfather had always been fond of whippings.
It's his one release,
And mother still bears the scars.

Her only sibling rests in a small grave out back
Next to mama's Angel oak tree.
And grandmother lies beside him.

I watch over them now - grandmother, uncle and mother.
Although injured when still quite young and
Not able to move about,
I am old enough.

Mother is old now
But still she talks of the happiness she felt
When I first moved in her womb.
And grandfather has gone mad,
Always complaining of heat.
His good eye, forever seeing his bedroom ablaze.

When grandfather gets angry now
Mother won't stand still,
So he has taken to whipping me.

Mother cries to see her father,
In failing health,
Still needing to lash out.
And I am sad and angry
That he has been allowed
To continue his deadly outbursts.
But, now, I am old enough.

The day was at rest
When I heard the familiar slam
Of the old wooden screen door
And the shuffling of frail feet.
And in fright I remained rooted to my spot.
A storm was coming; I sensed it.
Every inch of me bristled.

The darkness of storm clouds
Cloaked me.
Lightning strikes cracked the air,
And thunder bellowed in the distance.
I felt heavy drops of rain
And heard the whistle of sustaining winds.

The familiar stench of moonshine on his breath
Reached me before grandfather did,
And I knew what was coming.
I flayed about at his approach, and
Stirred up a frenzy of a whirlwind.

I felt the familiar strike of the leather strap,
And decided I had had enough.
I am old enough now.

The wind picked up as I swayed.
I up rooted myself
And came crashing down upon him.
Flames flashed and flickered.

At the awful sound, mother rushed out and found us -
Her dead father and tiny still bones at the base of
The fallen oak tree.

Old wounds will bleed once more.
Old scars will grow new scabs and
Eventually heal.