Who I Wanted to Be
Memory arises from a puckered, bent photo of that day. My cousin with her rich, sophisticated family enter our shack, the abomination of my stifled life. We do not have enough chairs. Children are left to stand or crouch near the screen door. I peek through a flimsy curtain hanging as a door to my tiny room, large enough for only a bunk and a box for my folded clothes. My cousin is eighteen. She wears a light blue linen dress with a peter pan collar, ankle socks and saddle shoes. She twists the ringlets at her shoulder. Her lavender scent reaches me as if from another world where I...
Read More