My screams were so loud, the next door neighbor would come over to make sure I wasn’t being murdered.
That’s what she told me. That’s the story I was told, time and again, by my neighbor and by my mother who adopted me, about my first year on this earth.
Now, I think of the pain that baby must have felt, the confusion, I must have felt.
I wonder, if I’ll ever cry like that again.
Sometimes, it makes me sad that I can’t remember a lot of details from my childhood. Then I think of that first year and still feel a longing, but realize it’s no wonder my body aches. No wonder I’ve had the same knots on my shoulders and through my back for as long as I can remember.
I think of that baby, of me, and wonder what, if anything, it would take to make me feel that way again. And I pray to whatever goddess watches over me, that it never comes.