I remember the screams
Of my youngest sister as she tried to sleep. Whose screams
Concealed hushed, conspiring whispers. I remember too the leaves that swallowed
The yellow toy truck that I had hidden the day we moved. Moving also swallowed
My chance to ever visit the creek. I remember the responsibility
Of being old enough to change diapers
But never to grasp the reason for slammed doors. Yet grasping the irony
Of yelling for quiet. Remember that Thomas the Tank Engine train I loved,
And wrote angrily about after it was taken away? That train track
Took a terrible turn with every hit. I remember making tracks in the woods
To ride our bikes on in circles and circles. And picking blackberries
Off the tree and spitting out the seeds. I remember our paper cup telephones
Carried our quiet voices to each other’s ears
Better than the silent roaring between my parents and oldest brother.
I remember hearing “You’re so much like your brother,” and questioning if
That yellow dump truck had been buried alive.