I Remember (a Constraint)

I remember the slant of our front door, the rattle of the handle. I remember hiding in the rafter of the garage. I remember cherry wars in the spring and games after church potlucks. I remember picking dandelions on walks with Mom and blowing off the tops for wishes–what I wished for, I do not recall. I remember my brother picking them out of our yard for money, Dad being surprised when he had to pay him hundreds of dollars. I remember how clever my brother was, even then. I remember the paper route he signed up for, the one I occasionally joined him on. I remember chasing our dog around the house with a hamper. I remember how excited I’d get to yell “Daddy’s home!” and see our dog run with unhindered excitement–the excitement of the innocent. I remember jewelry stands with my neighbor Julia, trying to sell items that only our mothers would wear. I remember how proud Mom was whenever I made her something, how Dad kept our special book in his nightstand. I remember that my parents instilled a passion for reading, creativity, and passion in me. I remember not wanting to disappoint my parents. I remember wanting to defy my parents. I remember whispering “is the whole house safe?” and “I love you infinity.”

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