Veils of My Youth

Abstract

Clinging to her was a ball of childish energy, curly haired and fearful, never understanding why the grownups had consented to leave the light for these cold, dark courtyards; hoping each morning-frozen with urine and shame -that the peepee would dry, that it would be forgotten; dreaming, between soaked sheets, of the bathhouse that would have cleansed her of this impurity, had they never come to these damp and misty lands. I remember being this skinny, sunburned thing, five years old, still wetting her bed, refusing each morning to get up. The image of my mother as a radiant star slipped out of sight, though it remained in my mind, a vivid, brilliant painting. Upon our arrival in the black northern city, my mother banished her veil of light, and I never saw it again. From time to time, she would tell me a story that confirmed the reality behind my childhood memories, but I began to have doubts. Sometimes I was convinced I had invented the white silhouettes. Un-