My childhood is a quilt to me,
white — not as snow
but as alone.
Spots of memory dot it.
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?
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?