I couldn’t say when it began, or even when it ended. I had already run out of air, as I sank below the surface. The memory, sometimes, rings too peripheral, too peninsular, too pedestrian. Lacking a heart or a brain. Dissolved into water.
I would concede that the summer of my seventh year has painted an asymmetrical portrait, working overtime following me with goggled eyes that move to every corner of the room. The attorney needed to know certain details for clarity, as they vetted me to take the stand, though it never came to that.
1997 houses many greats. Shirley Temple dances in the background, singing about animal crackers in soup. We become friends with Mulan, and together we all save China. The Spice Girls speak to me in a way no one ever has.
I remember a tie-dye rabbit that Misti hid in a trunk to surprise me later. How unmistakably magical, I had thought, that her name ended in an ‘i’ like mine. That all four of our names bore the spelling of five letters. Hi