It would begin with a small quarrel, and he would be caught in the crossfire.
Then a few seconds later, plates with food would be flying in the air,
Aiming at his mother who was almost always running for her life.
At the age of two, he had learnt to cover his ears with his tiny palms whenever these fights came about.
They would go on for hours and hours on end and it seemed impossible to get to the end of these fights.
Some nights, he would go to sleep, his tiny palms on his ears.
ALSO READ; WIFEY
PS; I also thought this was going to be an article, but along the way I realized that all I had was a verse. Then I thought, heck… why not convert this into a poem? I have been accused of writing long stories in few words, and I say; guilty as charged.