The rain held its tongue against the twilight canvas and wound up its performance, leaving an immaculately clean and shimmering world shrouded in an ethereal glow. A rare northern breeze, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant cachinnation, drifted across the house, a cool caress against my soul, a whisper of rejoiced world beyond. The rain beckoned secrets to my ear, a soft lullaby like the whistle of a beloved soul, droning to drift to the sweet oblivion of sleep, a journey into the land of dreams. My bedtime, that distant womb of slumber, was still an hour away, a decent margin of time stretching before me like a moonlit ocean, summoning invitation, exploration, and play.
The “grown-ups,” those mythical figures who inhabited the periphery of my childhood, were settled on a mat with faded edges like delicate, silken fringes, their voices a low, comforting hum, a language I was only beginning to decode. They spoke of things I didn’t yet fully grasp, of worries and joys that seemed to belong to a world far removed from my own, a world of grown-ups I couldn’t yet imagine. My uncle, 25, a tall, slim, and athletic man, usually a playful giant in my world, a malleable toy shaped by my whims, a figure of boundless energy and laughter, a constant source of amusement and adventure, turned his gaze upon me. He gave a downward askance, a twinkling of mischief and warmth, which held a strange, unreadable depth, a flicker of something I couldn’t quite grasp, a hint of intrigue and unsettling dare. “Are you brave?” he asked, his voice muffled, almost a whisper, yet carrying an undercurrent of something I couldn’t quite name, a challenge wrapped in callousness, a question that hung in the air like a shimmering star. “Could you… Could you kiss that lantern?” He continued.
My eyes became wide open, and I turned towards it, a shining cylindrical object sitting on the counter, piercing me with a beam of light penetrating my vigor and dormant gift. The word “brave” pacified me with a sudden, warm bloom in my chest, like a flower unfolding its petals in the first rays of dawn, a feeling of candor and risk swelling to push aside the quiet contentment of the evening, filling me with a sense of boundless possibilities, a feeling of invincibility, a belief that I could conquer any fear, overcome any obstacle. Planted firmly in the unyielding sand, My legs, soft and steady, felt like the roots of an ancient tree, anchoring me to the earth, joining to the strength of my candor. Resting definitely on my hips and hands became a declaration of strength, a proclamation of my unwavering courage and willingness to dare, no matter how daunting or unknown. Without giving a second thought or even the slightest flicker of hesitation, I turned towards it charging. It’s light, a beckoning star among the gathering darkness, a beam urging me forward, a promise of adventure and discovery. I moved toward it like an animated being, alive, swallowing one big gulp of breath, an embrace waiting to happen, a connection to be made, a mystery to penetrate. I rushed into its light as if it were a long-lost lover, a cherished friend, a symbol of all that was mysterious and alluring, a gateway to the unknown.
And then, the world dissolved. The warmth I had anticipated, the gentle glow I had been drawn to, transformed into searing pain; the imagined embrace turned cruel, fiery betrayal, a kiss that burned instead of appeasing, a touch that seared instead of soothing. That fragile, shimmering shield of my machismo, which I wore so confidently, shattered into a million pieces, leaving me exposed and vulnerable, stripped bare of my illusions. Screams, raw and primal, tore from my throat, echoing the sudden, agonizing bloom of pain that spread across my lips, a searing brand of experience, a mark that would forever be etched into my lips. Suddenly, a figure emerged from the edge of the house, a guardian angel in human form— mother. She moved with fierce grace, wielding a shield, a cyclone of love, opening my heart, an infinite space, pulling me back from the blazing lantern that had turned a torment, a nightmare, a lesson learned in a jarring way. Her presence assuaged my shriek like a balm against the burning glass, a shield against the agony. Still, the memory of the searing heat remained, etched into my flesh, a brand of experience, a reminder of the pain of experience.
The following dawn arrived with a heavy, oppressive stillness, a thick and suffocating silence. I woke up to the strange, unfamiliar weight of a balloon resting on my lips, a whimsical, swollen parody of a smile, a constant reminder of my misadventure. Once so ready to proclaim my bravery, my voice was now trapped, a prisoner of tender, swollen flesh, held captive by the aftermath of my ill-fated kiss, a victim of my folly, silence. It was a new language, a world devoid of the familiar music of my own words, a world where communication was reduced to gestures and whispers, a world where my voice was a ghost, a phantom limb. The balloon, a mocking reminder of my blunder, throbbed with a dull, constant ache, a relentless reminder of the night’s fiery trial, a constant companion in my newfound silence, a symbol of my vulnerability. It was a physical manifestation of my stolen voice, a symbol of the bravery that had turned to ash in my mouth, a heavy weight on my lips and my spirit, a jarring reminder of the price of my bravado.
The silver plate of my mother’s memory, polished and gleaming, reflects a story stripped of its raw edges, its visceral truth. She recalls the event, the bare bones of the incident, a narrative neatly framed and contained. But memory, like a river, shifts, and changes, its currents carrying not just the debris of facts but the sediment of feeling, the silt of lived experience. But, the memory in bones is a landscape scarred by the event, etched with the indelible marks of pain and confusion. It’s not merely that it happened, but it happened to me, a branding iron against my tender lips, a creation myth born of suffering.
The swollen lips, the physical manifestation of that night, are but a tangible symbol of the deeper wounds, the emotional fissures that run through my soul. The receipts I carry are not neatly cataloged documents but the ragged edges of my heart, the phantom aches that linger long after the physical pain has subsided. It was a lesson learned too early, a brutal initiation into the vulnerability of childhood, the insidious power of those who loom larger, who possess the authority to inflict harm with impunity. They see only silhouettes, these creatures detached from my corporeal confines; they were the figures to me; it turned out they were whispers of indifference and the casual cruelty that could crush a child’s spirit. They were the ones who saw or didn’t see and chose to do nothing.
We are, indeed, what we remember. Our memories are the threads that weave the curtain of our identity, the stories we tell ourselves to make sense of the world. My memory is a testament to the enduring power of pain and the way it can shape and define us, even decades later. I remember the grim smile of my tormentor, a predatory grin that still haunts my dreams. I remember the laughter, sharp and cruel, that echoed in the aftermath of my suffering. And I remember the heavenly hands of my mother, her touching a balm against the burning sting of betrayal.
His departure, his summoning to the beyond, offered no closure. There was no reckoning, no acknowledgment of the harm he had caused. The brand on my lips, both literal and metaphorical, remains a constant reminder of the unfinished business of pain. And so, I carry the burden of distrust, a weight that colors my interactions with the world. The instinct to protect my children, the visceral fear that grips me when they are threatened is a primal scream against the echoes of my own past. The sight of their tears ignites a fire within me, a rage against the injustices of childhood and the vulnerability of innocence. My wounds, though invisible to most, are as real as the scars that mark my upper lip, a testament to the enduring power of memory, manifested to an etching gray, the way it can shape and define us long after the events themselves have dwindled into the mists of time. It is a constant battle, a fight to keep the shadows at bay, to create a safe haven for my children, a world where their innocence is cherished and protected, and their voices are heard and valued.
