Looking up my Past

My first experience of memory is when I was a couple of years old, and my mother had trimmed my hair and I was looking in the mirror at myself.  I looked, and I hated how I looked.  My mother was behind me, and I knew this was her fault, because she controlled my hair.  I was seventeen before I was able to grow my hair without her interference.  

  I don’t know if I said anything, but I sure felt as if the world was upside down.  My father had taken the four of us to a trestle above the City of Kansas City, Missouri.  Wherever we looked, there was rain flooding the place.  Only our car, on an elevated track, was above water.

  

And when My friend down the street was furious with me because I cut one side of her platinum blond hair, I was told I was awful, but who was it that gave us the scissors so that I could do such a thing?  I hadn’t the words to describe it.  So, I was banished from her house, and my mother took her side completely.  I understood that I was alone in this world of my making. 

 I had to hide everything.

When My brother did anything, my mom had excuses for him.  He sawed the chair legs off but didn’t know what he was doing.  He made up lies but they were lies of omission.  

Now, my brother was younger, had bright red hair and green eyes, and was cute as the dickens.  I was older, not that good looking or even that nice, but I learned to be, because that was required of me.  My brother didn’t have to behave.  He was adorable.

  

Comments

  1. Museum AmyJuly 31, 2022 at 5:41 AM

    I have always found you beautiful inside and out. Your hair is stunning.

    ReplyDelete

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