What is a childhood without fully formed memories?
While others can tell hour long tales of a single summer’s day, mine are like a book with all but one of the pages pulled out.
My next door neighbour, stiffly poking at a plant in the garden with his cane as opera bursts from his house. A stuffed toy with an ear ripped off. Hair pulled by sticky fists, the sound of gasping sobs. Standing on tiptoes on a too-narrow shelf, skin greasy with adrenaline. A shooting star out of a car window, a dress stiff with vomit.
Fragments of a life.
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