my little brother.

at age 4, what did you know about pain? desperation? wanting? but you weren't supposed to understand, were you?

that day you walked in on Mommy in the bathroom, you weren't supposed to, were you? you were supposed to be playing with your teddy in the bedroom or playing with your puppy outside--"Don't run out in to the street for anything! Stay on the sidewalk!" that's what you were supposed to be doing.

but you didn't listen. at age 4, sometimes you don't listen, or you just forget to because you're thinking about all the other things you're supposed to remember: "Don't run out into the street. Don't talk to that man who lives across the street in that gray house(he's mean to children), Don't pee on yourself, Careful not to fall down, Come here and let Mommy comb your hair, ok?"

but you didn't listen to "Don't come in the bathroom," and you saw what you didn't understand, and maybe it wasn't real, like the cartoons you watched every Saturday. but this was different, because you couldn't unlearn it, and many many nights many years into the future, how could you know, that you would beg God to take it away. to wipe your memory clean. if only. you could go back and not see what you saw that day, when you were 4:

Mommy crouching in the bathroom. bare feet. cold tile. body lurching forward. face contorted like a monster. wire hanger in twitching hand. ripping away her own flesh. my own flesh. she screamed something, but you don't know what it was. you couldn't hear, you could only see. you wanted to move, and to scream, but you were frozen. bare feet. cold tile. eyes widened. you don't remember when you walked away. it was more than you could ever understand. and more than a child's heart could hold.