Memory.

9 years old.

You couldn't remember much before that year. When I look back, I think that you recalled your childhood as one long, hot summer. No school, no sitting still, no homework. Life was good.

You had a best friend, close as a brother. He was small, skinny, smart as a whip. Made the rest of the kids in school hate him because he could spell "Saskatchewan" and they couldn't even find it on the map. Mama was proud of you because you protected him from the bullies. Hell, you were the biggest bully of them all, but for some reason, you respected him.

He could take you on an adventure or two with his storytelling. You went to the Caribbean, the South Seas, Africa, Norway, Argentina when he made up his tales. You became pirates, explorers, Vikings, aviators. Ready to conquer the world, yes, you were. Two boys with nothing better to do than dream of a life far, far away from your sleepy little hometown.

It was war then. Those pilots from down under used that fallow field on the farm for take-offs and landings. They were something, those Australian boys. Young, cocky, with that peculiar accent you both tried to imitate around your mothers to make them laugh. And your mama needed to laugh more. She was lonely. Her eyes got sad once in awhile, but then she'd smile again, and it would be all right.

One of the pilots liked to come around a lot. Mama used to say he was courting Aunt Katie. You thought Aunt Katie was much too good for the likes of him, but the pilot used to let you and your best friend explore his plane, so you tolerated him. It was one of those old biplanes, bright yellow with a green propeller. You liked to pretend that that you were both pilots in the war, getting ready to drop bombs on the stinking Krauts.

"Pilot to Bombardier! Pilot to Bombardier! Bombs away!"

"Right in the pickle barrel as always, Captain!"

"Any good-lookin' fro-lines down there, Bombardier? We'll be needin' some down time soon!"

That day was brilliant. The sun had never shone so bright, the grass was so green it hurt your eyes to look at it. The wind had picked up and was sending the two of you into a delirium of restless energy. It was his idea to play in the plane.

You were just outside the barn when the propeller started. It pulled him out of the shadows, into the golden sunlight. He let out a war whoop that would have made an Indian proud and as the plane taxied down the dirt road, faster and faster, you ran alongside trying to keep up.

When he took off into the sunset, you cheered him on. As he soared into the sky, you waved.

When he disappeared over the next hill, as you watched the plane dip out of sight, you knew.

You saw black cloud of smoke rising up into the pale blue sky and you knew summer was over.

---

Memory.

13 years old.

Winter came. It was so cold that blisters were breaking out on your hands and lips. The sky was ashes and the trees, stripped of their leaves, had turned into charred, blackened weeds that strained into the sky. It was your father's birthday.

Mama and Aunt Katie dressed up for the party. You thought Aunt Katie was the prettiest thing you'd ever seen. Mama was beautiful, but Aunt Katie, she "walked in beauty like the night". It was years before you read those words, but you knew that they described her perfectly.

She wore a pale green dress. You told her she looked like a dark lily. She hugged you to her and told you that you were a poet, that the girls should watch out when you grew up.

You saw her later that night, rinsing something white in the sink. Thin red water was slipping down the drain. You asked her if she was all right. She smiled but something was wrong.

She was afraid. You could…you could smell it on her. It was mixed with other smells that were coppery, salty, musky. You saw her tremble. She flinched when you tried to touch her.

Two weeks later, you found her pale green dress in the barn. It was torn and crumpled, with stains that couldn't be washed out.

Two months later, pretty Aunt Katie was dead.

You heard the words "baby" and "scraped" and "bleeding" when the doctor spoke to Mama in a hushed whisper.

Behind a closed door.

In a room on the other side of the house.

The bruises began to appear on Mama's face and neck, always after your father came home on a Saturday night. He beat her senseless week after week then apologized the morning after, begging her to take him back. She lost weight, some of her teeth, then her dignity and her self-respect.

She couldn't keep anything down and was coughing up blood at the end. She died gripping your hand, her nails gouging holes into your palm that disappeared when she let go. You father got drunk again that night, and stayed that way for years. He started hitting you after the funeral.

He knew you were different. No matter what he used, belt, chain, his hand, you always healed. The perfect son to abuse, you didn't show any of your scars. They never stayed more than a moment before they healed. God, how you hated him.

You left home at sixteen, never looked back. Alcohol became your constant companion, but it was an empty relationship. You went through bottles of Jack, Johnny and Jim, but never felt anything more than the slow burn as it went down your throat. You would always be stone cold sober, never able to drown out his voice inside your head, saying things that no child should ever hear from a parent.

After all your father put you through, you still went home for his funeral.

You read from the Book of Job and helped carry the coffin. You put flowers on four graves. And you cried for all of them, even him.

You buried your childhood there. You were on your own.

Winter had finally ended.

---

Memory.

17 years old.

You fell in love for the first time.

No big surprise that she had dark hair and eyes. Her daddy was dirt poor and she never had anything nice to wear, but she was always neat and clean. You loved how the sun caught the red highlights in her hair and turned her skin golden brown, and you went to sleep every night imagining what it would be like to touch her. She was a year older than you. Her name was Julie.

You worked in her daddy's garage, slept in the office. You were the best mechanic in town. You could take apart anything and put it back together so that it worked even better than before. You never got tired and always did high quality work. Little old ladies brought their nice Cadillacs and Buicks to you. Business was booming thanks to your magic hands. Julie finally noticed you.

She came around to bring you and her daddy lunch one day and teased you about your attempt at growing a beard. You teased her back, right in front of her old man. Funny that he didn't seem to mind.

It was agony when she started keeping the books. The teasing went back and forth like that for days, weeks. You were frustrated and exhilarated at the same time, wondering when push would come to shove.

The night she graduated from high school, you took her out for dinner and a movie. You don't remember the movie, only that she wore a faded pink dress and a white sweater. The best you could afford was a few hamburgers and the drive-in, but she whispered into your ear that she was having a wonderful time.

Goodnight came and she kissed you. It was your first, and it was perfect. To this day you still remember the faint taste of cola, popcorn, her lip-gloss. The way she smelled, like roses and sunshine. The way she felt, all soft and sleek and smooth, and how much you wanted to kiss her forever.

Eight days passed. It was a Sunday night and the air was warm and soft. You were the only one in the garage, working overtime on a white Chevy convertible, when she came to you.

She wore a white dress and her hair was down around her shoulders. She was so beautiful that you didn't know what to say. She took you to the sink, and you washed away the grime and dirt. She put your hands around her waist.

"Daddy's sending me to the city tomorrow," she said. "I'm going to stay with my grandmother."

"Why?" you asked.

She didn't answer. Her eyes were wet with tears.

"I'll come with you!"

"No," she said, placed a finger against your lips. "I have to go alone."

You don't know how you ended up in the backseat, you just remember the rush of lust and emotion coiled so tightly together inside of you expanding to fill every part of your body as she wrapped hers around you. The hot, wet heat of her mouth, the glorious scent of her hair, the resilient skin where her neck met her shoulders, all new and unexplored places that burned themselves onto the map of your mind as you made love with her on the last night of spring.

She was gentle with you, showed you how to touch her and give her pleasure with soft words and sighs of encouragement. You were a quick student and she herself learned a few things in those precious hours you had together. The ecstasy was blinding and bittersweet as she cried out into your shoulder.

You never told her, but she knew. She felt it in that moment as you fell into her arms and held her close. She felt your tears on her breasts, the shuddering of your body that had nothing to do with satisfaction, the way your fingers gripped her flesh like you would never let go.

"I love you," she whispered. You fell asleep in her arms. You don't know for how long, but when you woke it was dawn and she was gone. You never saw her again.

You cried in the shower that morning as you washed the last of her away. The scratch marks on your back had healed and you cursed your gift. There was nothing left to remind you.

She broke your heart, but you never blamed her. It wasn't her fault you couldn't be enough of a reason for her to stay.

Her old man put his hand on your shoulder and wished you well when you left to fight in the war. He never mentioned her, but you could feel his quiet understanding. His daughter was a mystery to him, too.

You can be philosophical about it now, but a part of you wishes you could have one more night in her arms, one more chance to hear her say those three little words that carried you through the hellish heat of the jungle. You want to thank her for that moment you knew love for the first time.

Sometimes you walk in the woods at the end of spring, remembering her with a smile.

---

The leaves are turning colors. It's getting cold and everyone else is wearing gloves and scarves, so I don't feel so out of place. I've always loved the smell of the earth and the trees in autumn, and as I walk along the forest path, I feel you with me.

Sometimes you overwhelm me as you drift in and out of my mind. I've tried to fight you or forget you, but I've found it's best to just let you be. You don't frighten me anymore like you used to in the beginning.

Don't be afraid to remember, Logan.

Needles and drowning and pain are there, yes, but so is laughter and forgiveness.

And love.