the most powerful thing

::two

My first memories are of dim lit rooms and candy necklace. There is a woman with no face and gnarled hands. She's sitting in a rocking chair and I can't hear her.

Second comes Christmas morning, the tree is impossibly big and makes the rest of the room dim.

Another Christmas comes after years of nothing. We pull tape from cassettes and make war.

There is more time before the next. It is a taste and a night gown, neither forgettable, and I know that my sister can't, she can't, she can't.

So I do, and I'm quiet even after it's safe.

It's my birthday and my name is on a movie theatre in big letters. My dad doesn't come to my party. A few days we leave. My step mother stands outside of my window and tells me I never loved her.

I cry even though it's true. It takes me a long time to realize we were running away.

Time flows faster now, patchy still. Summers of skinned knees and honeysuckle on benches covered in art. It's an unending lull, like nothing exists.

I grew with gradually frightening haste, trying to burst from my own skin. I fight a lot and more and more I look like my mother. It's not long until I don't blame people who hate me because of that.

I remember remembering as if I'd never forgotten. I learn to accept that I may never remember it all, wonder if it would be worse if I did.

I learn to lie.

No one knows I remember but the sight of purple sheer makes me lose my lunch.

I'm sick, and sometimes that's a comfort. When my chest hurts and I lose more food than I keep, sometimes it's acknowledging this that makes it better.

I'm eighteen with a handful of memories to my name and a baby in my arms.

She isn't mine but I realize with something like desperation that she needs to stay safe.

I remember that day, half a life ago, mugging August and one window open. Remember it closing, remember realizing that she was right. I didn't love her.

But this child, this tiny baby in my arms...

I'm terrified of her, for her. So much can happen, so much can hurt, and I'll miss her childhood.

Childhood can kill you, almost killed me, but it won't kill her.