The Iron

When I was in the fourth or fifth grade, maybe nine years old. We were in your bathroom at the house on Melville. We were sitting at the vanity in the dressing room. The carpet was palest of green and the wallpaper was beautiful. Large florals of pink and green. You were curling my hair. I don’t remember what I said, but you became angry and beat me with the hot curling iron. I watch your reflection in the mirror. Do you remember what I did wrong? I’ve always wondered. This is the legacy of damage you leave behind.

Advertisements