childhood

At Night

At Night

When you’re a child and you wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of your parents fighting, it might last a minute – or ten - but it feels like forever. You creep out of your bed to the mouth of the stairs.
Then you retreat, then creep forward again, this time bolder, down a few steps. But you run back to bed when you see a stomping figure cross the base of the stairs, bellowing and waving his arms. The sound of your mother being slapped sends a jolt through you. Should you go help her? But you are only five. What if you get hit too? What if he kills her? What if he kills you? These thoughts swim in a circle of anxiety until exhaustion steals you back to sleep. A slamming door makes you stir, but you do not come to the surface.

The Dump

The Dump

I pitched a quick look over my shoulder. I was almost at the tree line and the horses were still at the lower fence. Growing up around horses, I was not normally afraid of them, but when I walked through the pasture, I always had a feeling they would run toward me, trampling me in their haste. It was the wide open that made me feel this way. They were really very huge animals.

Indian Paintbrush

Indian Paintbrush

It was just a flower. A familiar flower with an outdated name. But as I stared at it, my skin grew clammy and I felt my chest restricting. My breath coming in and out in wheezing gasps. I ran.

 

When I was 7, my parents were killed on a camping trip. I was with them, and I survived. I was missing for two days until I was found, wandering, beaten and bloody and mute. I was clutching a small bouquet of wilted wildflowers. I had no memory of that time. Until now.