I remember the screams

Of my youngest sister as she tried to sleep. Whose screams

Concealed hushed, conspiring whispers. I remember too the leaves that swallowed

The yellow toy truck that I had hidden the day we moved. Moving also swallowed

My chance to ever visit the creek. I remember the responsibility

Of being old enough to change diapers

But never to grasp the reason for slammed doors. Yet grasping the irony

Of yelling for quiet. Remember that Thomas the Tank Engine train I loved,

And wrote angrily about after it was taken away? That train track

Took a terrible turn with every hit. I remember making tracks in the woods

To ride our bikes on in circles and circles. And picking blackberries

Off the tree and spitting out the seeds. I remember our paper cup telephones

Carried our quiet voices to each other’s ears

Better than the silent roaring between my parents and oldest brother.

I remember hearing “You’re so much like your brother,” and questioning if

That yellow dump truck had been buried alive.