Some people feel entitled to their memories—the rush of falling water, a lick of frozen cream, sand callused on their toes. A peal of laughter. A warm hug. From my first moment of complete awareness, I have been feeling guilt. They drop by swiftly, these bouts of sudden lucidity.
They come as I spoon vanilla frosting onto my sun-scorched fingers, as I lock eyes with a stray squirrel, hasty with a lingering nut. They come as I prance on a newly-paved road, while memories of harsh gravel scrape across the surface of my skull. They come as the scent of the freshly cracked spine of a novel tickles by and I am struck with visions of tiny hands with tiny scars and tiny eyes with fathoms six feet deep. And when they come to visit, I shiver and drop my own eyes—eyes that have seen too little, and will always be nervous around eyes that have seen too much.
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