God is far, far away when the wooden spoon’s in Mom’s hand.

Mom slides the spoon in between the two metal handles of the cabinet over the sink in our kitchen on Jefferson Street.  The spoon locks the doors.

“If you don’t stop that, I’ll get the wooden spoon,” said Mom.

“You girls behave, or I’ll get the wooden spoon.”

“Clean your room, or I’ll get the wooden spoon.”

“Hurry up and get ready for school, or I’ll get the wooden spoon.”

“Get in the kitchen right now and eat dinner, or I’ll get the wooden spoon.”

“Do the dishes, or I’ll get the wooden spoon.”

“You girls stop that yelling, or I’ll get the wooden spoon.”

“You girls stop that fighting and hitting, or I’ll get the wooden spoon!”

The wooden spoon has a friend, Daddy’s black, snaky belt, that slithers on a nail near the kitchen back door.

After the divorce, the wooden spoon has a new spot on a cabinet over the fridge in our kitchen on Seaside Avenue.

After we move to Darien, the wooden spoon travels with us and reigns over the fridge in our kitchen on Noroton Avenue.

The wooden spoon has a new friend here, Mom’s hard, pink hairbrush, that likes to rush through the air and slam into my back.

Worst of all, in all three homes, are the witch’s hands.

I hate the witch’s hands.

Locked into a corner, there’s no escape even though I try to figure a way out as the witch’s wicked hands come at me.  I flatten, protect my head with my arms and take the slashing hands that hit every which way as Mom’s sharp screeches lash at me.

If God’s too busy to get close to me, maybe Mother Mary will help me forgive Mom.  Blessed Mother, do me a favor and please, please, please, ask God to give me grace.