You are in a nebulous space of adolescence. This isn’t a memory but something cobbled together to soothe the spot that hurts a decade later. It alights in the fuzzy edges like gossamer, blending seamlessly into dreams you already can’t remember.
You are in a nebulous space of adolescence and a little boy’s laugh is the most beautiful sound you have ever heard.
He’s giggling, shushing himself, as the steps slow, as he creeps into your room and to your bedside. And then suddenly there’s weight as he throws himself on you, crowing for his big sister to wake up.
And you do.
And the illusion shatters.
The sunlight is the watery overcast of a typical Canadian morning. The shuffle of bodies on the other side of too-thin walls are various neighbors beginning their day.
There are no small feet, no beautiful, wondrous laughter.
The weight at your hip is feline, still dozing even as the crushing, inescapable reality drives into you with all the gentleness of a car crash.
Your name is Verónica Dolores Nevarro. You are twenty-six years old. And you are alone.
How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd