Years ago my therapist encouraged me to write a sort of autobiography. This is an excerpt from it.

••

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away... two people brought into this world a bouncing baby girl.

Born on Monday, December 30th
@ 12:26 a.m.
7 lbs. 10 oz. 21 inches.

She rings the old bell.

The bell is small, just fitting in the palm of her hand. Dark green like a midnight forest, the bell's metal twinkles. Dark green like the color of her basement walls. High-pitched and light, she's always liked the sound of this little bell. It's something that would welcome one to a fairy's shop.

But what's attached to the bell, that's what makes her feel special. A tan bookmark, glued together and fraying at the edges, hangs on a thin string from the clapper. She runs her fingers over her name - it's printed in a rainbow font, cutting edge for the time of her birth - and down to the figure at the bottom of the bookmark. A paper angel, only as tall as her ring finger, smiles at her with penciled features.

And finally, hugged between those epic words, a miniature photo of Mommy and Daddy. Facing each other, Dad tries to mimic Mama's round belly. For the most part, their little faces are too blurred to tell, but she's always taken her parents to be laughing at the absurdity of their poses here.

If she follows the thin string up instead of down, she will find a large circle, twice as large as the bell, with three birds suspended in flight in the center.

For four years, day in and day out, it was just three.

But for her, four years old was a very long time ago. As of now, her life contains five. As far as she's concerned, it has always been five, and will continue to be five.

"Cecie!" Her father calls. "We're going to go visit Mommy in the hospital."

Today is the last day they can touch their mother for a little while. Radiation is a dangerous drug, she is told.

"Don't be scared when we get there," her father says, "she won't be able to talk much and will have a scar on her neck. She'll also have a lot of tubes coming out of her, but she's okay."

She is prepared for vacuum-sized tubes to be running out from every limb on her mother's body. But when she arrives, it is simply a few small IVs.

After the hospital, her mother must live separately from any other human for a little less than a week, so ladies from church come to spend the day with the three sisters while Dad works. They bring tubs of craft supplies and casseroles and VHS tapes and smiles; they help the girls make cards for Mama and act as a currier between the family members. Mama sends her daughters cards and homemade games every day; she draws them coloring books and writes songs and gives little bags of handmade playthings.

Soon, she can hug her mother again, and their lives returns to normal. Mostly normal, anyway; Lina and Sarah have a hard time understanding why they can no longer nurse, why they can no longer have that intimacy with their mother while still being so young. Sometimes, she feels the long, raised, scar on her mother's neck.

Seasons continue their progression around her. Her days crawl slowly into weeks and months, and finally, after what feels to be an eternity of waiting, another year comes to an end.

"Honey!" Mama calls from down the hall, "are you ready?"

"Yes!" She calls back. Giggling, she doesn't care to stay still in those excruciatingly long moments until her mother reaches the bedroom.

She knows the drill: everything is a surprise; she can't peek until they tell her.

Once situated on her mother's hip, she squeezes her hands over her eyes, squirming in excitement.

Birthdays are the best.

••

Something comes to a head during this time, she doesn't know exactly what. Perhaps it started when Sarah was born, when the stress of three little children in the one-bathroom house became too much. When the novelty of small babies wore off and becomes an impossible chore.

Her father leaves before the sunrise every weekday; he usually comes back as the sun is sinking. Eating at the dinner table, the three girls jump up and run to the door upon hearing that first click of the lock, "Daddy!" they yell, happily.

But after dinner, the kitchen becomes a warzone. He doesn't smile; his face is locked in an angry grimace of fire eyes and tight lips. Tupperware and plastic cups ricochet around the room when he becomes upset. Plates and spatulas crash across the counter and sink. He kicks at the toys and bags in the ever-growing pile of things to be taken to the basement.

"Don't worry," Mama comforts her in a different room, "it's okay."

Often, though, her mother tries to calm him. It never works. He never calms down. He only becomes more and more upset. "What do you even do here all day?!" He screams at her. "Why can't you keep the house clean?! This kitchen is a fucking disaster!" He tosses another bowl into the sink.

Often, her mother will raise her voice back. He retracts from her touch and becomes even more irritable.

Yet every night, her family gathers for prayers. Everyone has petitions, then everyone kisses and hugs goodnight. She always wishes for someone to snuggle her to sleep. When she is lucky, her mother or father oblige.

11-8-22