The faintest memories can be the most powerful.
Even if you don’t remember much, but I remember this:
Daddy, holding my hand, brother and sisters alongside.
The five of us walking down the street to a neighbor’s.
We arrived, shook the hands of slightly familiar faces, leading us to the back room.
The white door shuts after Daddy tells us to go to sleep.
Sleep? In a bed that’s not ours, there’s four of us?
Now three, sister climbs out the window and leaves.
Dark room, where light only seeps from under the door.
Never mind, it’s covered with a towel stuffed under.
First thought – they’re smoking. I was used to it.
Sleep? They’re laughing, and cussing, loud, no room.
I’m on the floor, I take off my socks and shoes.
Sister talks about my tiny pinky toe, brother laughs.
We crack jokes, then say goodnight.
We made a good time out of a unique situation.
Suddenly, complete darkness and silence.
I think I finally went to sleep.
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