“Where was she?”
Walter looked toward the floor.
“She died nine years ago.”
I closed my eyes.
And suddenly, I was eight years old again.
I don’t remember my first home.
I don’t remember the woman who gave birth to me.
I don’t remember being carried away.
What I remember is a trash bag.
Black plastic.
The kind adults use for garbage.
I was eight years old when I learned how quickly a child could become portable.
My clothes were folded into that bag.
A pair of shoes.
Three books.
A stuffed rabbit with one ear.
A toothbrush.
A photograph I no longer remember taking.
I remember holding the bag against my chest while a social worker told me everything would be okay.
Adults always said that.
Everything would be okay.
You’ll be somewhere safe.
You’ll make new friends.
You’ll get used to it.
You’ll see.
Nobody ever told me that “somewhere safe” might mean another bedroom with someone else’s rules.
Another school.
Another last name.
Another family photograph where I didn’t belong.
By the time I was twelve, I stopped unpacking completely.
I kept my important things in one small bag.
Because I had learned something children shouldn’t have to learn.
