Memories

Last night memories were pushing at my mind and wouldn't let me rest until I had released them. Memories of course never end, but last night I seemed overwhelmed by them. And just as life is both good and bad, so too are these memories, some sorrowful, some joyful.

Voice raised in song, perfect harmony. United for one purpose, in praise of a God I served with all my shattered heart and soul. For one moment, perfect, complete.

A younger, unscarred me, running to and fro amidst the docile animals of a live nativity scene. Hot cocoa, raisin-filled Christmas cookies. Cold nose and fingers, bright heart. Laughter, carefree.

Terror at having told the secret. Shame I claimed for my own. Waiting as a camp director and my father spoke words I could not hear. Knowing my life was forever changed, knowing and fearing.

Stinging hands, the thrill of a perfect block, volleyball down, a point for the Warriors! The crowd's applause, but from my teammates, my Christian classmates, the same scorn as always.

Disconnect. Peers discussing boys and clothes whilst my mind replays yet again the memory of my shame. A night spent once again crying into my pillow, a day spent longing for the end of a life already too long at fifteen years.

Horses and cows. My hands holding the reins but Little Cinnamon knows what to do better than I, and together we start the steers back to the corral for the night. A roughened cowboy treating a grubby little girl like one of the hands.

Running away. Twenty-five miles on my bike, but that car is familiar and now the escape ends. Tears and promises, not from me, that things will change. Familiar words, familiarly broken. Nothing ever changes.

Another visit to the youth pastor. A later time I realize how much he avoided me, how much he shirked his duty. For now, as I climbed the stairs from basement to second floor, I only sought help for my problems. Problems, though I did not know it then, that stemmed from the shame I bore for so long.

Tears. The realization that eight years of shame was not my burden to bear. Finally knowing that I was not complicit in my own abuse. And anger, for I was not the only one who judged me for another's sin.

Blood running down freely, shed for those tears I could not. Scars, line upon line, leaf upon leaf. Freedom, however brief, from constant pain or constant numbness. Hiding them in shame or showing them in defiance, outcast from those who were supposed to love and accept above all others.

A friendship broken once, twice, thrice. Promises to love forever, broken. Once a life saved, then death desired. My soul, my innermost being, given freely. Love given and received, closer than all save my Beloved. But then coldness, demands, arrogance, ultimatums. Whispers in ears, other friends disappear one by one. Fair words to face, knife twisted in the back. Trust, only newly forged, in a shattered mess upon the floor. Words twisted, always sub par, always unequal.

A life of faith, wasted. Perfection, never. Sincerity, unparalleled. Desire, unmatched. A life spent waiting for the answer that never came. Waiting for the everlasting arms that never enfolded. Waiting for forgiveness never granted. Waiting for peace that never soothed. A faith shattered. Realization that life will never be the same. Freedom obtained.

A wave of love for the first time, for the son born nearly a year before. Nearly having thrown something so precious away. Love with shame.

Red rocks. Vedauwoo. Church picnic, before shame, before packing up and fleeing from old memories. Monkey-like, scampering up and down the leftovers of some forgotten upheaval. On the way home, the best kind of tired, singing along to Pensacola and Patch the Pirate.

Running across hot sand to the cool water of the Reservoir, not fast enough, burned soles. No sympathy. Blowing up the inner-tubes by mouth in the back of the station wagon on the way there. Holding our breath through the tunnels, pointing out Chimney rock to each other for the hundredth time.

Far, far back, perhaps the earliest of all. Neighbors with German Shepherds and a go-kart track. Two boys, older than me, persuading me to pull my swimsuit down. A blank spot in my memories, then pulling up my swimsuit from around my ankles and running for home. Telling no one. How old? Four, I think. Why a blank spot? I wish I knew.

Family visiting. Waking up in the middle of the night, heading to the bathroom, meeting much older cousin coming out. Cousin inviting me back in with him. Standing on top of toilet naked, while his hands and mouth visit places usually reserved for one's Beloved. Asked if I wanted to do the same to him, No. Shrug. My first experience with male genitalia, at the tender age of seven.

No cartoons for us, but we devoured old Westerns and black-and-white serial shows. Roy Rogers, Dale Evans, Gene Autry, young John Wayne, many more. Dick Tracy, Zorro. Violence that never felt violent. Good versus evil, good always winning.

New Jersey beach. Swimming, cold waves. The boardwalk, two-seater bikes, salt-water taffy, Johnson's caramel corn. The houses we stayed in, a condo and the mysterious attic house. Watching Dukes of Hazard while parents try to extract a "splinter" nearly the size of a dime from the bottom of my foot. Later the hospital visit to finally get it out. A little keyboard I played "Twinkled Twinkle Little Star" on over and over. Ocean City sweatshirt printed with the logo I chose.

Mulberries. Handcuffed to the mulberry tree by a brother in toy handcuffs with no safety tab. Eating mulberries with cream. Raising caterpillars off the tree. Crying, when my mother paid my brother a quarter each to squish caterpillars and mine were the first to go. Catching jars full of fireflies among its branches.