She knew when I was lying, and she knew what I was thinking. She knew when I took cookies out of the pantry in the kitchen, even when she wasn’t in the same room. I thought my mother knew everything when I was eight. The pages in the Sears catalog in the drapery section were worn from me turning the pages, trying to decide which Bedspread to order. I ordered the pale pink Bedspread with ruffles around the bottom and matching curtains from the Sears catalog. The man we called Uncle Carl stayed in my bedroom. He slept in my twin bed. My twin bed with the pink covers. My bedroom was at the end of the hallway, across the hall from my brother’s room. The house on Avenue K had three bedrooms, one for my mom and dad, one for my brother, and one for me. K North in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, while my father was out-of-town. When I was eight, Uncle Carl came and stayed with us at 1216 Ave. I ripped off the cover and I tore out the pages.
The diary was a present for when I grew up. I wasn’t feeling very good as I’m getting 2 new teeth and they sure hurt but everyone was making such a fuss, cause I’m a yr old that I was trying to be as happy as I could. Mummie and Daddy and Neal gave me a 2″ doll and Auntie Anne and Uncle Carl were here for supper and they brought me a five-year diary for when I grow up. On page twelve of my baby book my mother wrote in cursive handwriting with blue ink a list of presents that were given to me on my first birthday. I edit the story and then I click, Save Draft. I have a file labeled, graphic details, child sexual abuse.Įvery few weeks I open the file and read it. I typed the truth and then I copied and pasted details of the story that were explicit. I started to write a story called “When I was Eight.”
It is hard for me to write about what happened in my bedroom behind a closed-door in 1966. It is easy to write about finding my iron. It is easy to write about losing my hammer. I have been avoiding writing some of my stories.