I’m Sorry

I was the older sister – just –
So close as weans when we were wee.
At five I’d almost got it sussed;
Who always gets the blame? Aye, me.

She’d fall and greet, I’d try to help –
Not what our Ma wud see,
‘Y’ve pushed her o’er!’ and then the skelp
‘Upstairs wi’oot yer tea!’

It didnae seem that awfy fair,
Ma sister kens the game.
She kens I’ll always be right there,
I’ll always take the blame.

***

Then childhood goes to teenage years
And still I’m covering tracks.
To save her hide and angry tears
We’d plan behind Pa’s back.

No risks for me (too scared of belts).
‘Stay oot this late, ye bism!’
Through walls of brick I’d hear the skelps.
The house was like a prison.

When Ma and Pa were fast asleep
I’d listen out for her.
At midnight, down the stairs I’d creep
And pray our folks don’t stir.

One time there was no help in prayer,
Ma came downstairs for water.
I made it safely back upstairs,
But not the youngest daughter.

Pa ruled his house with buckled belt,
What was our Ma to do?
To tell Pa then would mean more skelps
With buckle or brogue shoe.

Our Ma’s as much a victim here,
She never answers back.
We know he loves us but we fear
His temper and that slap.

Now, Little Sister, you’re away,
I want your soul to know
I’m sorry that I didn’t say,
‘I heard each buckled blow.’

I should have gone into your room.
I should have held his arm,
And told him, ‘Hit her, hit me too,’
And saved you from that harm.