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before I was supposed to remember
I remembered we stayed in different places rode on buses at night I knew her smell and her sadness I watched her count pennies for a pastrami sandwich we slept on couches my first memory is my mother screaming picking me up we slept on a kitchen table that was someone else's as the rats scurried beneath us I felt safe curled in her arms she probably didn't know my home was her she was probably scared that she couldn't take care of me that we would starve homeless she found a man that housed her he called her sugar tits and cunt threw the dinners she made against the wall my stepfather the man that raised me the man that abused me believed that women were an afterthought when I listened to them fight I missed those bus rides at night searching for a home her arms around me while the world whirred past whenever she had a man she became a ghost the homes she inhabited she haunted I waited in the background for her to see me it never happened now that I am a mother and I have lost the closeness to my own daughter because of some man that didn't turn out to be home those greyhound bus rides falling asleep in my mother's arms don't seem so bad the men in this story didn't have these memories they went on to abuse more they didn't think about daughters or wives they just bulldozed on until they were dead or alone or in prison the last time my mother held me was on a greyhound bus we sat in a mint grey green seat with only each other for comfort I fell asleep looking out the window wondering where the next stop would lead
1 Comment
7/4/2021 08:38:05 am
I loved this and was heart broke at the same time. So beautifully written. as a child I spent many hours riding a Greyhound bus to my mean Grand Mother's house Our traumas made us who we are. Women who shape the world with words.
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AuthorMichelle Tinklepaugh Archives
June 2023
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