She says, "You were such a happy child until you
turned eight, and that
becky-girl moved in. What did
she do to you?"
I say, "I don't know, mom. I don't think she did anything."
But mom, you told me
what the neighbors told you.
"Becky was hitting you," you said.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
He says, "You are always so secretive, closed
in, always hiding
something. What happened?
I often wonder if you
were abused as a child. Were you?
I say, "No. Not that I can recall."
But the woman who came
to the house, the day when, after
and asked so many questions about
Weren't you there?
They say, "You watch too much
television. TV junkie!
Our TV junkie! Why do you watch
so much?"
I say, "I don't know. Just because it's there,
I guess.
But I remember the summer spent
inside, when I was eight, and it was
dark except for the glow and flicker.
And when you got close enough,
it was blue, green, and
red, people, others, lives.