When My Father Was Jesus

When my father was Jesus, he stormed around the house and the back-porch screaming loud as the apostles and catching lost birds. He grew violent with crazy and wild eyes that no one could stop. I wore dresses back then and watched the Son of God come apart. Snowball, my button Quail was sitting quietly in my hands. The Son of God noticed one of the quail was missing and He KNEW where it went, across the street in the thick ivy.

Screaming he ran across the street across the map of that black asphalt stuff that lines the cracks and is smooth to little bare feet in summertime.

When my father was Jesus he sat hopelessly staring outward and told the other inmates that he needed to concentrate or the world would implode. He was catatonic for three days on the stairs and neither slept nor spoke and still after all these years he tells me he stopped the world from its demise.

I remember the screaming. I remember the violent outbursts towards my sister and me. I remember crying myself to sleep. But I wish I could forget.

When my father was Jesus, he was strong like a man and like the Son of God, he told me things that I believed that were terrifying and remain in the twisted recesses of my mind. If you eat cooked food you will be controlled by the devil it is evil. What about my friends who eat it? Be suspect, they are under the spell of the Evil one.

When my father was Jesus I never slept at night because I didn’t know if he would try to fly or steal cars or hurt himself on all the excitement of knowing the one TRUTH. HE knew and we did not, us like sheep the followers and the flock and the daughters and the sinners and the liars.

When my father was Jesus my mother lay broken like a skinny little bird with no wings or song dead in the tree. My father took the Thorazine and he shuffled his shuffle walk through the house with the little bird telling us to leave him alone. Where was the smile, wasn’t Jesus supposed to be happy. I mean for Christ sake he was the Son of God and who were we, just little kids being babysat by molesters who taught us to French kiss and made us swear not to ever tell.

The stigmata and the crown of thorns proved it and He never let us forget by the constant bleeding he was doing.

When my father was Jesus the joy in the sun went out and all became dark. His passion became frightening and who were we to stop his madness. Who were we to question Jesus? He was Jesus for years. Unfair to my sister who I loved and it made her hate me more than my face already secured that fate. When my father was Jesus, my mother slipped into fairyland like Alice and she became small and weak like a victim, but she was our mother, so we told her to knock it off. There’s nothing to fear mom, but fear itself. But she slept next to Jesus and Jesus showed her his unraveling mind and my mother got lost somewhere in the listening.

When my Father was Jesus and the maker of the world he showed me his scars and I cried while saving the pennies in my world piggy bank. One was on his toe where he was almost killed and his toe was messed up and I told him I would marry him if he weren’t already married to my mom. Then he showed me the scar where the steel girder fell and if he moved one tiny bit he wouldn’t be here and neither would I. It was too much; I loved him more than this world.

Years went.

Years where my memory made excuses for my Dad. But it still left its mark deep and forever.

He had a stroke, he had a disease, he had some problems that even a daughter’s love can’t fix and now he is different, but in my mind I remember when he was Jesus and am still frightened. The anger is all gone, just a dull ache remains because when I see him now he tells me I am beautiful, I sing in tune and He hates my black nail polish. My dad hasn’t gotten to be a part of my life not only because of him, but also because of me. I told him once during the “you are the best there ever was” years, that he needed to stop with the compliments. He asked me why and I said because I will never try if you keep it up, but back then I knew what love was. He told me from now on he would only tell me what I could improve. So from then on, when I was 12, no more compliments only corrections and I wilted under the scrutiny.

I miss him when I see him. He is different and not wild and screaming and the smartest person on earth. He is a human being and I don’t know how to tell you how that breaks my heart. My dad was Jesus once in hospitals as a doctor and a patient. He was my father and taught me to work hard and run fast and told me I was the smartest prettiest girl in the world. He taught me all I know, my Dad who used to be Jesus.