There's something I didn't tell you.
Something I forgot.
Or maybe something that was taken from me.
Every time I try to remember before age nine—
There's static.
Just white noise.
But sometimes…
I dream of a hospital room.
White walls.
Beeping machines.
My dad sitting beside a bed.
Holding a small hand.
Crying quietly.
I never saw my dad cry.
Except in that dream.
The hand he was holding…
Was mine.
Bruised.
Bandaged.
Motionless.
And Mom was whispering:
"Please wake up, Leonard."
I asked Dad once if I'd ever been in an accident.
He froze.
Just for a second.
Then smiled too quickly.
"No, champ."
But that night I heard them arguing.
"He deserves to know," Mom said.
"And lose him again?" Dad replied.
Lose me again.
You see where this is going, don't you?
I didn't.
Not yet.