An Ordinary Day
- Philip Foley
- 17 hours ago
- 3 min read
by Philip Foley
A True Story of Shunning by Philip Foley, as told to
Kathleen Hoy Foley
On an ordinary day
Dead Boy emerges from the smog
on wings of a dark messenger
and motions to me.
I feel my old body hurling backwards
through decades.
Seas parting
Circus lights set ablaze
Asthma squeezing air from my
young lungs.
I see my 1950s dad
walled inside a grudge—
a blackened ice floe drifting room to room.
No footfalls.
No echoes.
No words.
Just the eerie silence of a deep freeze I
cannot melt with a missing-tooth grin,
or hands warmed by a steamy Brooklyn summer.
Or shoo away with my excited kid heart.
Dead Boy looks me dead in the eye—
Yes, it’s as creepy as it sounds—
and points.
There I am
wearing flannel pajamas
shrinking in the shadows
being motioned forward
to my father seated in a chair.
I’ve done something terrible
so terrible that I am about to be kicked into hell
with the toe of my father’s spit-polished shoe.
I am a man who admits his follies:
We were playing Cowboys and Indians
and just like on television,
I tied Brucie to a tree
to burn him at the stake.
Only I didn’t have matches.
Some busybody snitched.
And now it’s up to my father
to dish out hell
where I’m headed anyway.
My dad mumbles something—
no words, just knotted grunts—
and slaps me across the face.
A slap so weak
it lands like a caress on my cheek.
I let out a wail
loud enough to lick the Flames of Hell.
Dead Boy is staring at me. Directing me.
So I lean in
and listen
intently
to my wailing.
It is not a cry of pain. I see that. I’m not hurt.
Neither am I embarrassed. I deserved punishment.
Dead Boy is nodding his head
nudging me further into my wailing.
It takes me a minute
of listening
to my high-pitched howling
to hear it—
a cry of such anguish, such agony
it is choking me.
Shit…
It’s the wail of grief.
A wail of gushing sorrow.
Of pain unleashed from its hiding place.
Because…because
it is the first time
in a long, long time
that my dad has touched me
or looked at me
or spoken directly to me.
I hear the cry
of my frostbitten heart—
the lacerating pain of rejection
tormented by a crumb of his attention.
I guess I should tell you:
I am Dead Boy.
A life spent
on the sidelines—
faceless and invisible—
eager to be part of the revelry
as my dad
lavished time and attention
on outsiders.
Even tossing them the keys to his treasured car.
Their rowdy laughing
pierced my veins with doom
and numbed my body head to toe
while I obsessed over the questions:
Why not me? What’s wrong with me?
I look at Dead Boy.
He’s standing shoulder-to-shoulder with
Shunned Boy
Neglected Boy
Ghost Boy
Abused Boy
Disappointing Boy
Needy Boy
That’s a lot of sad kids
camped under my skin
sucking up my oxygen.
No wonder I had asthma.
This is an ordinary day
of extraordinary events.
I now see those boys.
And those boys
see me.
On this ordinary day
I—an old man—am visible.
***
Retired police lieutenant in a capitol city, Reiki Master & Intuitive Hardscape Artist. Through my study of energy and commitment as a Reiki Master, I incorporate the metaphysical with the practicalities of everyday life. This commitment is further expressed in my work as an Intuitive Hardscape Artist.
Through my writings, I bear witness to the unallowed truths of abuse trauma – my own and others. Exposing the invisible, elemental secrets of trauma allows for the possibility of seeing and understanding for both individuals and our culture. I have authored a trilogy of books about the legacy of sexual abuse trauma. To obtain a free PDF version, just log on to https://mediumsinart.weebly.com/free-pdf-books.html and click on the tab for the book you wish to see. If a paper copy is desired, just fill out the contact form on the site, and we will happily mail a copy.
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