the things they told me later

by E.E. Karn

I remember...
The tasty aroma of stale goldfish, and
Making dandelion chains, pulling grass up from the ground (We functioned better than a lawnmower)
Twining our fingers together behind the dumpster…
Popsicles and
The squeal of bus tires and
Biting my pencil (all of them)
New erasers that I never used (I had the most of anyone)
Big kids with loud voices and big backpacks who slammed their lockers closed (sometimes with people in them)
Nap time on shiny plastic mats sticky with sweat,
Racing every day to get the best corner of the playground
Wood chips,
Scraped knees,
Dirt-stained faces.
Getting patted on the head (often) and thinking indignantly, “I’m big!”
The teacher with the soft voice who put band-aids on just right

I don’t remember...
The boy who came to school every day and then one day didn’t
Parents whispering with sad faces
Watching mommy break my crayons when she came home angry once (purple was my favorite)
My grandmother who pinched my cheek with her perfectly manicured fingers and tried to slip me dollar bills under the dinner table when she visited (I didn’t take a single one I don’t know why)
The book my daddy used to read to me before he had to leave
Losing my baby sister (I don’t know where my mommy lost her)
My favorite friend who changed schools (it might as well have been Mars) because her mom and dad divorced (nobody told me what that meant)
Wearing sneakers with holes in the toes (how they laughed)
Being pushed on the asphalt and
Crying
And
Crying
I only remember the scraped knees and the teacher who put band-aids on just right

They told me later that I did but

I don’t remember crying