Wondering

Recently, I realized my mother has never told me much about what I was like as a baby. The only thing she ever told me was that my father would put me in the closet when I cried until I eventually fell asleep. The other night on the phone, I asked her to tell me more, but it's been over fifty years and many babies came after me. She said she really couldn't remember anything. Funny how after all this time, I just now started wondering about it.

Today, I wrote this in my journal. Is it the start of a poem or just random thoughts? I'm not sure. Whatever it is, it still needs work. Suggestions and comments are welcome and appreciated. : )


Wondering

My mother never talks about
what I was like as a baby.
Anytime I ask she says
I don’t remember.

The only story she tells
is how when I was little
my father used to put me
in a dark closet until
I cried myself to sleep.
She says he hated hearing
me cry but when I ask her
why—
she just says
I don’t remember.

My father wouldn’t
have to worry now
(If he were around)
I NEVER cry
anymore.

I wonder
if it's because
somewhere deep down
inside—

I
remember.