The teacher, you forget her name, is teaching you and a couple of others about recycling.
You’re in bed, crying.
You want to cry loud enough to be heard, but you’re too old to wail.
Lying against the wall, opposite, was a three-legged dog…
Your grandma wasn’t the kind of person to want to scare you. Nor can you remember her telling you many stories.
We pressed our ears against the wall, looks of concentration on our dirty faces.
We could definitely hear something.
“He nearly died. And now there’s something wrong with his brain.”
You were all sitting on the floor, in a poking, shuffling, unkempt circle.
The boy was kneeling in the mud, hands clasped, eyes shut. His lips were murmuring a plea for rain.
His father pulled him up by an ear.
“What did you get for Christmas?”
The teacher was going around the classroom.
You consider the dark years to be from 17 to 21. You were full of uncertainties, insecurities, self-doubt, angry ambition, and pain.