One day, we were at a party. There was a bloody knife
hanging from the man’s hanging arm and my mother and father were by the hand,
running. I was maybe about three years old. I remember it being in Brooklyn.
Forty years later, the picture still remains in my head.
Another memory I had was sitting behind a pegboard desk, centered
in a living room with no furniture. It was in 41 Bartlett Street, Williamsburg,
Brooklyn. Nearby was Mrs. Ashell and my father walking in carrying linoleum. I
thought to myself, “Why this memory?”
I was then four years old. I remember walking alone from
Bartlett to John Lee’s hand laundry. From Bartlett to Myrtle Avenue, I was the
shortest person walking along the streets, which were frightening to me at the
time. I was the only person waiting for lights to turn green. I have no memory
of anyone ever asking me where my mother was or if I was okay.
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