by Paul Johnson


They always say to write what you know, but you see the memories don't come to me like they should. Doctors told my Pa there was something wrong when I was little, but he didn't want no part of that an left me when I was eight, and that's life, I can't control it. The foster program wasn't any better, but I had found a way to cope with the struggles, and that was the writing, but the issues came when deciding what to write about; I couldn't write about the memories; I didn't have any. The only things I had were the scars. You ask me what the best day of my life was and I haven't got the slightest clue in the world, but you ask me the day ma got shot and I'll tell you October 26th. I remember that day better than any other. A crisp autumn eve like every other, til I hear two shots in the distance and my ride from school never comes; I never looked back. They day my Pa left, April 29th. He said he was goin out for a quick beer. That quick beer went from an hour, to a day, to a week, and I never looked back. My favorite birthday; I can only remember the 5th one. That's the one where my brother got into a car crash and didn't make it out, but I never looked back. You see lookin back on all those memories too soon would never be the way to do it. If you wait until your older you'll be able to laugh em off like they never even happened, but for me that was impossible, because the scars were all I had. I couldn't cling to the good memories because there were none. I couldn't remember a day my mom had kissed me goodnight, but I could remember the kiss she gave me with her glassy eyes the day she dropped. All of you may have every memory, the good and the bad, but you have the choice to push the bad ones aside. I don't have that choice. I am stuck with every cry, every scream, every scar from my life, and I can't hide them. I have to embrace them.

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