Remembering

Mom,

Wherever you are in the ethers of heaven or the space beyond Earth,

Do you remember…

One day, at the pink house—swatting at me with a plank of wood that had nails in it

I was hiding underneath a bed—in that bedroom that was next to yours; this is hazy but

I see blood on my hands and feel a scrape on my head; I was probably 11, for sure in the 5th 

or 6th grade.

Was this before or after you told me to pack up everything I owned because you “were sending me to my grandmother’s”?

All the boxes. I actually packed up my entire room; you said to do that.

I’m not mad. I am just remembering.

So much has had to be forgiven and washed away under all the waves that crashed up against us, that house, that sat upon the sand

Burnt

By the sun and more

But I am happy to report

The remembering is my salve now.