Before I Was

Before I was, you were alone. Before I was, you had to fend for yourself. You don’t talk about it. To translate those events into words would wake them from their stupor. You can’t take the risk. So, I have to rely on the tidbits you let drop while I was playing at your feet on the bare-tile floor. Almost absent-mindedly, to keep me from distracting you while sprinkling the right amount of paprika into a pot of goulash bubbling on the stove, you tossed a few shreds of memory my way. You regretted your half-hearted generosity as soon as the pungent vapors filled the air together with a stream of follow-up questions, bombarding you with childish curiosity. You tasted the slushy stew, pursed your lips, and replied with an impatient wave of your hand, as if chasing away a persistent fly. But a crack had already gaped in the crust of the earth, letting a faint scent of noxious magma escape, mixing with the fragrant odors of lunch being prepared. Your eyes glazed – within a split second, my warm Mommy transformed into someone I did not recognize. The beasts stirred in their deep caves and you were forcing them back, wielding your wooden spoon, flapping your arms, beating the air, piling up whatever came to hand – the cupboard, the kitchen table, the refrigerator – to block their exit. An inquisitive, stubborn redhead, I still knew better than to insist. Gagged, eager to reverse my gaffe,...