You remember the hand that struck,
And struck hard.

You think only of your tear-stained cheeks
After yet another spat.

All you recall is the frowning brow,
The angry eyes.

You only see the contorted mouth,
Hear the voice scolding.

But one day,
In a future that only Time can tell of,
You will remember

The hand's caress;

The cheeks that were kissed;

The tender eyes;

The kisses of the mouth;

The soothing, loving voice;

And tears of a different kind
Will stain your cheeks (No longer chubby, never again to be round)
And a broken voice will call: