Now that’s a one liner.

Imagine walking into a book shop (or library) – places I can lose myself in — and seeing this title?

 I’d totally pick it up. 

I’d consider the cover.  Flip it over and read the first few lines.

What the heck? I’d smile, I’d laugh. I don’t remember liking liver either!

I’d likely buy this book.

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Things you did. Things you saw. Things you heard.

Things you remember.

…things you don’t remember.

Hmmm, how does one remember what is not remembered? 

Writing prompts in a recent writing workshop.

What don’t I remember? Lots, I am sure.

I don’t remember?

I don’t remember getting kicked in the head by the horse.

However, I do know I was in a stall with three.  As my story goes, I was kicked in the head by one. Kicked in the thigh by one. And stepped on by another.  Tell tail imprints left on my 9-year-old body.

I don’t remember getting up, getting out of the stall, walking out of the paddock, opening the  gate? Or crawling through the fence. I can see the area, plain as day and I can imagine  the route. I’d done it dozens of times. Dozens of dozens. A childhood full of doing it.

This day, doing it begrudgingly– the twice daily trek to feed the horses. 

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I do remember being on the dirt road halfway back to the house.  Sobbing, limping, wondering how did I get here? As if suspended in time. Is this a dream? It totally felt like a dream.  Did I go to bed? Where’s Kim? Kim was here, I don’t remember her going home? Dropped into a scene. Confusion.

I see my mom in the driveway, and Kim is with her. Mom opens the jeep door and helps me in. I am sitting in front seat- or was it the back? I am  looking out the window at the familiar landscape passing by. 

I ask, 

“What happened”?

I ask, 

What happened, what happened, what happened… 

What happened?

I remember hearing my question, laughing at its absurdity.

I just asked that, I say.  The words now sticking, I smile as it sounds so silly. My hand to my mouth -ouch as I laugh. that feeling of your lips stretching when your  face is swollen.

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I don’t remember liking liver.

I remember liking the smell of bacon frying, and the smell of onions frying.

Too often, Sunday night dinner.

and then the smell of liver frying…

Milk helped. Gigi helped.

I remember sitting at the table facing off with a plate of liver, onions and bacon, a glass of milk, Gigi at my feet, and the secret gap in green wallpaper, near the corner where I sat, made with a small fingernail.

Strategies for relocating Sunday night liver.

I do not remember liking liver.