Do I remember my childhood? The hopes and dreams I had when I was innocent and small? The laughter on the school playground? The birthdays, the bedtime stories, the family vacations?
Youth is a delicate thing, a fragile bud of a flower waiting to bloom at dawn. Childhood is precious.
So why can’t I remember it.
Maybe in a different world, I would remember. That’s something I wished for sometimes. To remember. To know the face looking back at me at the family reunion. To remember my friends from when I was 6. To remember what my childhood home looked like. To remember learning things in school, to remember all the happy days.
It wasn’t until I was older did I truly realize why I can’t remember.
Youth is a fragile bud of a flower waiting to bloom at dawn, and trauma is the hand trying to rip Youth out of the ground by the roots. So I grew thorns, sharper than glass and harder than steel, to protect myself.
My thorns hold my memories. They’re locked inside the thick cellulose walls that protect my stem. They hide my trauma from me. But the damage still lingers.
Maybe it’s good that I don’t remember. I’m not immune to my thorns; they protect me but only when I don’t test their abilities.
At dawn, I will bloom. My petals are perfect, glittering in the sunlight. But don’t forget my thorns.
