I Remember

I remember the polka-dot dress I wore on my eighth birthday, the hems kept blueberry cheesecake stains my mother couldn't wash out even at the fifth spin of the machine. I remember the little pink star of confetti that stayed stuck to my wrist until I fell asleep, and how I woke the next morning and found it flattened like a leaf beneath my cheek. I remember the purple plastic comb with three missing teeth that sat on the windowsill above the bathroom sink, the one I used to drag through the knots in my hair while the tap wheezed itself awake. I remember the birch tree behind the house, how its bark scratched my shoulders when I climbed too high. I remember how my sister and I tied an old floral bedsheet between its branches and called it a hammock. I remember the first time I went swimming when I was seven. I remember the chemical scent crawling inside my nostrils, and wondering how long I could breathe underwater, whether anyone would notice if I never left the chlorine whirlpool pulling at my ankles. I remember being eleven and my mouth trembling when the doctor pressed a thick needle into my arm after a stray Labrador's teeth tore through my knee. I remember my father's stuttering breath. I remember him whispering a litany of Shush, be brave, be brave. I remember not understanding how bravery and silence were the same. I remember the sun-yellow mangoes my father had brought home from the farmer's market that July and my mother slowly slicing each one as if counting prayer beads. I remember being ten and holding my friend's hand beneath the kitchen table, our small fingers hooked together, her thumb moving once across my knuckle as if to say, I am here, I am here, I am here. I remember the scratch near her wrist. I remember everything that has forgotten me.