Shakily, I breathe in.
Retreating from the room where voices are hurled at one another like bullets, I find solace in the kingdom of clothes. The clothing dryer hums and heaves, radiating heat. I like it here, even if it is not far enough to drown out the sound of a war waged only by spoken word. As I tiptoe further into the room, something outside crashes to the floor, shattering—I am used to broken things: toys, crayons, vases, marriages.
The dryer beeps, indicating the end of a cycle and the light inside dims. I open the door and crawl inside; I am small, barely four years old. Nestled snugly in a ball, I fit into it almost too easily, carving my shape into the nest of warmth and cloth. It is a long time before anyone comes looking for me. …show more content…
Even as the door to the dryer creaks on its hinges, I stay still, my eyes squeezed shut. Gently, my older sister picks me out of the cold heap of clothes, whispering reassurance.
This is one of my earliest memories. It’s funny how looking back the experience has a dream-like quality to it—as though more fiction than fact, ripped from a story book and sewn into my memory. I wish I could say that from these early childhood days there was only betterment and improvement in my family life as I traveled through the years. I wish that quite a lot.
My fists were so small back then—curled furiously, shaking fearfully. What could those hands do to change anything? They couldn’t even catch the tears spilling from my siblings’ cheeks.
Truthfully said, these hands are still small—small enough I can trick myself into thinking they’ve not changed in these fourteen years. But they have—oh, they’ve been through so much. Not all the power in the world could have stopped the cracking and peeling of my skin or the scratches, cuts and burns. Nothing but time could have healed my broken nails and strained wrists. Not a thing could have discouraged these hands from writing, working,
Retreating from the room where voices are hurled at one another like bullets, I find solace in the kingdom of clothes. The clothing dryer hums and heaves, radiating heat. I like it here, even if it is not far enough to drown out the sound of a war waged only by spoken word. As I tiptoe further into the room, something outside crashes to the floor, shattering—I am used to broken things: toys, crayons, vases, marriages.
The dryer beeps, indicating the end of a cycle and the light inside dims. I open the door and crawl inside; I am small, barely four years old. Nestled snugly in a ball, I fit into it almost too easily, carving my shape into the nest of warmth and cloth. It is a long time before anyone comes looking for me. …show more content…
Even as the door to the dryer creaks on its hinges, I stay still, my eyes squeezed shut. Gently, my older sister picks me out of the cold heap of clothes, whispering reassurance.
This is one of my earliest memories. It’s funny how looking back the experience has a dream-like quality to it—as though more fiction than fact, ripped from a story book and sewn into my memory. I wish I could say that from these early childhood days there was only betterment and improvement in my family life as I traveled through the years. I wish that quite a lot.
My fists were so small back then—curled furiously, shaking fearfully. What could those hands do to change anything? They couldn’t even catch the tears spilling from my siblings’ cheeks.
Truthfully said, these hands are still small—small enough I can trick myself into thinking they’ve not changed in these fourteen years. But they have—oh, they’ve been through so much. Not all the power in the world could have stopped the cracking and peeling of my skin or the scratches, cuts and burns. Nothing but time could have healed my broken nails and strained wrists. Not a thing could have discouraged these hands from writing, working,