I remember

I remember

what it felt like to be small.

How complete I seemed to myself,

every part of me there.

Not as the grown-ups saw me,

a scrap of a being,

much too small

to matter.

I, silent at my mother’s side,

the women above me

talking, talking,

their

words

falling

on

me

like

snow.

Sometimes they talked about me

as if I wasn’t there.

Or there but had

no ears.

“Nice photo. 

Too bad about those teeth!”

“Skinny?

If she turned sideways,

she would disappear.”

“Does Marion help out at home?”

Wouldn’t they be surprised,

I’d say to myself,

if they knew

what I’m

thinking

down

here?

But they didn’t know,

couldn’t possibly know,

because they didn’t even know

I was real.

And yet,

how fiercely real

I knew myself

to be!