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?
Sometimes I think some of us hold our breath for a long time. Great writing. I can really relate.
Thank you. Yesterday, my counselor really liked it, too. LOL.