Thursday, February 21, 2013
I told my first grade teacher about my father’s stories. She smiled at me. “Oh! He has such a great imagination!”
She must have said something about it at the parent-teacher conference. I spent nine days in the basement. My dad cried when he let me out. He used to cry a lot. Punishing me hurt him. But they were watching us, he said. They would know if he wasn't trustworthy.
My memories are like riptides. I swim at an angle, work my way to the edge, then escape. I manage to stretch, refocus, stand up, then I catch my breath when I see a stranger in the mirror.