Childhood Memory

Forest (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I run over the sticks and stones that my brother says will break his bones, but I have not seen any words anywhere. Not yet.

My mother said that when it came to my father she had difficulty finding words, but that they always came to her when she walked the dog, and I know where she walks the dog. The forest. So that is where I am. In the forest searching for words. I look left and right, but do not see any. Neither do I see the root that has grown across the path. So it catches my foot and I fall, my nose smashes into a stone and my knees are scraped. Blood spills from my nose as I pick myself up and begin to cry.

Then I remember that I am alone and I stop crying. Not because I stop being scared, but because I know no one will comfort me. So I save my crying for when I come home, where my mother talks and talks and talks to me about how I look, about how everything will be all right, about where I have been, and I think that maybe some words came home with me from the forest without me noticing.

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Posted by Beatrix MGN on April 3, 2013

https://abolg.wordpress.com/2013/04/03/childhood-memory/