Sunday, January 4, 2009

What I remember

Memories, like winter wind, slide right through my skin. Echo to the center of my being.

I was six. I was alone. Sitting perfectly still in the back seat of a police car. It smelled like old cigarettes and perfume and fear. But I wasn’t afraid. Not anymore. It was over. At least I thought it was over.

There were two men in the front seat. The heat was on high making the ride all the more uncomfortable. My winter coat was on, but it wasn’t zipped. I could have zipped it, but I was perfectly content sitting perfectly still.

They would take turns. Looking back at me. Perhaps to make sure I was still there. That I hadn’t escaped somehow. That I hadn’t thrown myself into some sea of emotion when then hadn’t been looking. Because I’m sure that’s what they were thinking. The two of them. That any minute now I was going to start crying or screaming. That I might show some sort or emotion.

But I was content sitting perfectly still in the back seat of that police car. My heart had turned to stone and had become the perfect anchor for my emotions. There was no way they could rise to the surface. Not with all that weight holding them down.

And besides, it was over. At least it felt like it was over.

It would be much later in life that I would realize, it had only just begun.

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