The room is dark. What has happened in this basement before? The window is hardly open enough to reveal. There has been an accident and something was thrown out of the car. The block is covered. Toy R Us liquidating, flowing into the sewers. Emergency responders gesturing wildly. And days and days in bed. My father would always say… There is not always something to say or worth saying. We call this moment hidden but it is in fact the uncovering. Two kinds of memories, ones we can speak of and others we just know in our bodies. The memories I have with you are only in my body. We would run around the house take off the pillows, look behind the television. Unravel the wires. Look behind the family photos on the mantle. My mom asks if we are cursed. And I agree something is wrong. I tried to tell her we just need to move more slowly. Breathe. Remember what is hidden in my body.
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