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Twelve

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I learned to read at two years old. I'm told my father taught me.

I remember crouching on the sidewalk reciting the alphabet.

I remember my sister helping me through Ramona the Great.

I have no memory of any teaching with my father.

I remember hot dogs with him, and whole days

devoted to me. I remember when the reading

he allegedly taught me became the outlet

when he and I no longer spoke. I remember

backing up into that room at the top

of the house, an action that would repeat

itself as he pushed me farther away.

Teenage outbursts came later:

that morning it was just up and up the stairs

clutching The Hobbit

or something like it,

clinging tight

to the bannister,

my spine ramrod straight,

no hint of tears just the first

of that hardness I'd later learn

to wear as second skin.

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