I remember rolling decades old matchbox cars down lengths of decades old orange, plastic track across a decades old living room under the watchful gaze of a decades old grandmother who had watched my father do the same. Wind could be heard blowing down the chimney. The cat's bell clattering as it turned a corner.
I remember peering over the top edge of a lawn chair and the sudden and panicked fear that I felt as I unexpectedly tipped over the edge and dropped onto the rocks below. I have forgotten the pain.
I remember the barn behind my aunt's house encircled with blackberry bushes.
I remember being thrown over Austin Weaver's shoulder during an altercation. Was it cold outside? I walked away in tears.
I remember one brother throwing the other over the bed and the way the window shattered when his foot flew through it.
I remember riding my bicycle home in the cold, wishing I had stayed right where I was.
I remember a thunderstorm summoned.
I remember the scars stretched across skin.
I remember hiding under the rear seat of my parent's Peugeot.
I remember being afraid of darkness.
I remember building gasoline bombs in my neighbor's garage.
I remember four of us in my basement, asleep and content.
I remember the pain that took my breath away. Feelings of loss and betrayal.
I remember a darkened basement and pedaling in circles, and children laughing.
