My childhood is a quilt to me, 
white — not as snow
but as alone.

Spots of memory
 dot it.

Barely remembered, 
moments in fragments
as if
 a stork of coal
 had stepped across the whiteness
 at random
and left inky patches,
 disconnected.

No history could be constructed;
 but many stories inferred.

Each one different —
perhaps having little to do 
with my own – whatever that was.

How do others remember?

Names.

Places.

Dates.

Their first this, their last that.

To me, my childhood is a quilt,
 pulled over my head.

How didn’t I drown?
 Or am I still

holding my breath?