Childhood. Sometimes it feels like a piece of hard candy I swallowed long ago, and that hard candy remains stuck in my throat. Most of the time I am unaware of its presence, but then something will shift and I will feel it in my chest, something stuck there like a rock or calcified lozenge, and I can’t stop thinking about it. Fixating on it. I want to cough it up and see that undigested bit of hard candy resting in my palm, right in the center of my palm, tangible evidence that it is finally out of me, or I want to reach down into my throat, way down in there, past all my words and defenses, and pull out the saliva-soaked hard candy, pinch it between my fingers, saying—There you are, you little bastard.
Childhood. Consolidated into a single edible metaphor, a harmless piece of candy you’d find in a glass dish at your grandmother’s.
When I close my eyes, I can see everything. And there is nowhere to go.