hitting the child

Written by Cathoel Jorss, published 11 years ago

Today on the markets I saw a man hit his child. He and his wife were standing among the racks of a bright clothing stall, I did not see what the boy had done but I noticed a woman sitting at her sock & beanie stall knitting had stilled her two needles and taken up watch. He said to his son, We are sick of you today. You must stop this. Look: people are staring. The child looked unhappy. He was maybe 7 or 8. Maybe he had done something monstrous, we were bystanders. I exchanged glances with the sock lady and her mouth tightened. Walking towards the little family I saw that the boy had flung himself on his father, wrapping his body around the man’s leg, his arms tightly clasped round the thigh and his face buried in the fabric of his father’s jeans. The father was speaking to his wife about clothes. I went up close to him. I dropped my hand quietly on his shoulder. “Let him say sorry,” I coaxed.

“Eh?” He looked up. I repeated, “He wants to say sorry. Let him say sorry.” My hand came up to cup the back of the boy’s small, silky head. “Yeah, yeah,” said the father, dismissively, “we will.” But his own hand crept up into the boy’s hair. Because I think, whether we are parent and child or two adults, by instinct we follow each other’s example. Later I wondered how had I got away with it. Why had the father not slapped me, as well. I think because I had no sense of righteousness, I didn’t feel entitled, I felt irresistibly moved. I felt back to my voice, my tone, and felt its gentleness. I felt the way my eyes were burning with love in my head. You know how you can feel them in their sockets, fires in the skull, your soul on fire inside them, like a pair of windows opening out instead of in.