at 8

I remember being sure that I was beautiful. I remember being oblivious to whether I was the right height, and weight. I remember knowing I was the perfect shade of soft soil brown. I remember loving a cool dapper mama’s boy named James. I remember calling out “daddy!” I remember him smiling wide in reply. I remember motorcycles and women loving my father – women that weren’t my mother - as much as I did. I remember being tiny in long, shiny cars with big wide seats. I remember the yucky, loving act of my father licking his thumb and wiping my cheek. I remember words like “baby girl” and “hey there” falling like now & laters from my father’s lips. I remember “give daddy some shuga” meeting me in the air just above his head. I remember going home and not being able to wait to see him again. I remember the heat of an August morning. I remember Fair Oaks Avenue. I remember a sea of grey-blue carpeting. I remember a cool new boys club. I remember silence despite the sound. I remember a boy I thought I liked. I remember his sandy brown face and “good hair”. I remember his eyes too big and wild with excitement. I remember his voice screaming “did your daddy kill somebody?!” I remember being shocked. I remember walking past him (refusing to look back) and wondering how I ever liked him. I remember another boy. I remember this other boy being his brother, maybe. I remember him racing right up to my nose. I remember his voice. “your daddy was drunk and kilt this dude last night!” I remember spinning, but only my head. I remember wanting the spinning to stop. I remember wanting to disappear. I remember wanting my mommy. I remember wanting to cry. I remember not crying. I remember the loud crinkly sound of the newspaper. I remember it being shuffled too close to my face. I remember voices shouting “look! look!” I remember looking. I remember reading. I remember thinking dead, dead, dead, next to Jackson was wrong. Dead next to Jackson was bad. Dead next to Jackson was true. I remember knowing that anything in the newspaper was right. I remember being so confused. I remember the crowd around me growing big. I remember growing small. I remember wanting to call my mother. I remember wanting to disappear. I remember wanting to fight the tears. I remember a grown-up rescuing me. I remember thinking it was too late. I remember pleading to call my mother. I remember knowing that if she came there, it would mean everything had changed.