A Poem: Fruit Loops and Fury

And, some prose...a memory jog...

Today’s Audio—

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Photo by Artur Wayne on Unsplash

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Hello all and sundry,

Come on in. Whether you are new here or an old hat, it sure is good to see you! We always begin by filling a glass or cup (I drink a sweet, green tea), finding a tasty snack (today, with this poem, I’ve chosen a comfort food: warm cinnamon role with butter), and we get comfy somewhere (I’m parking myself in our overstuffed recliner). Get yourself comfortable and I’ll share this poem with some background commentary and prose.

Before we begin, I do want to acknowledge that this piece may be triggering for some. Hell, it was for me.

I must express that I understand that the youth of our parents was a HUGE contributing factor to their very poor decision making, and I have long forgiven mine for any of my childhood traumas. Their actions will never BE RIGHT, but my love and care for them will always BE. I know my mom loved me, and all of her kids, very deeply. As a parent, she made loads of mistakes, but she was SO MUCH MORE than her mistakes. In the year leading up to her passing, we all told her as much, and I pray she knew that. I can only hope that my biological father had love for his kids, too, but I remained distant from him throughout much of my life, he passed years ago, and I’ll never know just how he felt.

Life is messy. Familial relationships are part of that messiness. Still, maybe, just maybe, if the contributing factors to childhood or adult messiness were talked about more, and instances of trauma were not kept so secret or stigmatized, things could or would be different in the lives of all of us. Those kept secrets would no longer contribute to a cycle of so many of the things we go through. Just, maybe…

With that—Ready? Let’s get started.

Backstory…

I read a short essay by

Sherman Alexie

, Blue Light Special, in early January of this year. It was a remembrance of his childhood—growing up poor and having irresponsible parents. Whew! It brought some memories back, for sure. The first one that leapt into my head was this one:

—Being, my little sister and I, bedded down in the backseat of what may have been a Chrysler or a Buick (I don’t remember and Mom isn’t here to say). It had 4 doors, big bench seats, floorboards large enough for an early-elementary aged kid to curl up on, and a huge back window space that both of us kids could lay across comfortably. It was late, because the sun was down. We were parked. It was moonless dark, but for the neon lights of a bar illuminating our faces, when we’d peek over the seat to see if the bar door was still closed. Mom was inside.

We played as silently as we were told to, while she was in that small town, country dive— dancing, date-seeking, and drinking. (She was just 22 and newly divorced from our father.) We’d hear unfamiliar voices, maybe in laughter or aggression, coming and going. Each time, flipping the blankets we had over our heads and sliding our bodies over the edge of the seat to the floorboard. We did that until there was silence again and went back to playing with our dolls or plastic horses in the flickers of neon.

Sometimes we were there for 30 minutes, sometimes for hours. If it was longer, Mom would come out with a bag of Lays, sometimes pickled eggs or Slim Jim sticks, a can of Orange Crush, and a pack of M&M’s, or a Hershey’s Bar, for us to share. We would be elated and grateful, forgiving and non-judgmental, as she’d gently explain that she was going to go back inside—just a little bit longer and then, we’d head home. She’d ask if we needed to pee. If we did, she’d open up both doors and we’d have a squat right there in the graveled parking lot. (We were ‘country’ kids—going outside was as natural as eating.)

Another flash—

—Me, sitting at our kitchen table, eating a bowl of Fruit Loops, while fury flared in our living room. I was about 3, as we still lived with our dad. Mom left him, when I was 4—still remember the night of our escape—but, that’s a retelling for another time. This time, centered around eating a bowl of Fruit Loops. I put it into a poem.

Here it is—

Photo by Jessica Neves on Unsplash

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Fruit Loops and Fury

Staring at the rippled
chrome trim
of our kitchen table,
taking a spoonful 
of bright, not yet soggy,
Fruit Loops,
I chewed.
Ran my fingers 
over the rise and fall
of trim, slowly;
bump, 
bump, 
bump 
as tiny fingers
went down, then up again.
The pace,
over those humps and groves,
increasing,
bump, bump,
bump, bump, bump...
faster and faster
to match the 
quickening of my heart beat
and my child unease.
From the other room,
above the volume 
of the black and white,
my parent's voices—
rose.
And, 
rose and ROSE;
under-breath anger
exploding into deep hollers
and screams.
A reverberating slap
instantly replaced with
SMASH 
of shattering lamp
as it dove
off an upended side table
and flung itself
in all directions.
My diminutive neck and shoulders
winced.
I s-i-l-e-n-t-l-y let 
tears find their way out
to muffle my own words;
I knew better...
than to get loud about it,
or anything.
Learned young—
much younger than—three—
keep noises to myself
when he was angry
and smelled strong;
when cigarette stayed 
in constant burn and
pull tabs popped
with frequency.
My shoulders and arms
tightened me in on myself—
the more punches and screams—
forced, bigger spoonfuls 
of Fruit Loops into my face.
Salty drops made ripples
of milk in my bowl.
I could hear
baby sister beginning to fuss
from her barred crib
in our shared room.
My body stuttered.
How could I quiet her?
She can't cry.
But, the path
to her
was through a room—
in war.

What goes through
a three year old's mind
when adults
in the home,
in the midst of
violent unrest, 
would be furious
with her inconvenient
presence?

What went through
mine was—
'Quiet, my sister.'
She didn't know, yet—
noise,
whether tearful or in laughter,
could get you hurled
against a wall.
I knew.
I'd felt the force
of bouncing off of it,
flumping to the floor, 
lungs, in breath
knocked out—
all fight to gasp.

Mom's screams, 
now sobs, and Daddy's 
words less loud...
In my deep breath,
with PJ footed feet
to linoleum,
I padded
quietly, softly,
eased
to the arched kitchen entry.
What can a child do?
In weensy voice,
I whispered,
"Mommy? ...Daddy..."

She was couched, 
head in hands.
He was in his chair,
glaring at the TV,
can of beer in hand,
Fury fuming.
With unknown origin 
of courage,
I stood in front of them.
"Please, don't fight,"
squeaked between my lips.
They both looked down
at me. 
Surprise and lies, 
as in unison they said,
Oh, we're not fighting..."
Memory statics
as somehow
we came together on the couch,
me in-between,
bitty arm around
the neck
of each of them.
"P-l-e-a-s-e don't fight.
Be nice. Say, 'I love you.'
Can you promise?"
And...
they lied again.
And...
I believed them.

Mom went to 
see about baby sister.
Dad stumbled 
to the kitchen and
poured us both 
a bowl
of Fruit Loops.
I crawled up 
onto my chair.
Joined him in
delusional
forgiveness.
Taking a spoonful 
of bright, not yet soggy,
Fruit Loops,
I chewed.
Ran my fingers 
over the rise and fall
of trim, slowly—
bump, 
bump, 
bump... 


W. Gray  -2025

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Shoosh! Not any easy read. Not any easy read-aloud. And, I am sure, not an easy listen. If not for the therapy I came to have when I was eleven, not sure I would have written about this. As hard as these memories are, there is incredible, unexplainable release in putting them to paper. Now, in sharing them here, I release them again, this time like a balloon into the sky of Substack. I hope you can feel the release.

I’m putting some links below for abuse hotlines. If someone you know could use the encouragement to find a listening ear, get out of a volatile situation, or assist someone they love, the information is here.

Thank you for reading and listening.

Many blessings and MUCH LOVE,

~Wendy💜

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• 800.799.SAFE (7233), or National Domestic Violence Hotline

• Al-Anon Family Group

• Child Abuse and Neglect Prevention

• Child Welfare Information Gateway

• Alcoholics Anonymous

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