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278 pages, Paperback
First published April 2, 2013
"In my nightmares I am alone on a train, heading into the wilderness. Or in a maze of hay bales. Or walking the streets of a big city, gazing at lights in every window, seeing the families inside, none of them mine."
"But it kind of feels nice to nurture her resentment, to foster it. It’s something she can savor and control, this feeling of having been wronged by the world."
I leave four children I could not help and did not love. I leave a place of degradation and squalor, the likes of which I will never experience again. And I leave any last shred of my childhood on the rough planks of that living room floor.
Time constricts and flattens, you know. It’s not evenly weighted. Certain moments linger in the mind and others disappear.
In Mr. Reed’s classroom there’s a photo of Molly Molasses taken near the end of her life. In it she sits ramrod straight, wearing a beaded, peaked headdress and two large silver brooches around her neck. Her face is dark and wrinkled and her expression is fierce. Sitting in the empty classroom after school one day, Molly stares at that face for a long time, looking for answers to questions she doesn’t know how to ask.
I don’t want to go into another home where I’m treated like a servant, tolerated only for the labor I can provide.
“You are my only granddaughter, and I want you to have it,” Gram declared, fastening the chain around my neck. “See the interlaced strands?” She touched the raised pattern with a knobby finger. “These trace a never-ending path, leading away from home and circling back. When you wear this necklace, you’ll never be far from the place you started.”
Sometimes these spirits have been more real to me than people, more real than God. They fill silence with their weight,dense and warm, like bread dough rising under cloth. My gram, with her kind eyes and talcum-dusted skin. My da, sober, laughing. My mam, singing a tune. The bitterness and alcohol and depression are stripped away from these phantom incarnations, and they console and protect me in death as they never did in life.She learnt very early in life, as a nine-year-old girl, when they were lined up by height at the train station in New York, that it was best to not think about the past. That it was best to forget. Later in her life she would have to forget how they were transported from one station to the next, lining up on stages in halls around the country, where people could pick them like work horses for various labor purposes. Free labor for whomever took them. Their ages did not count much. Adoption was only an option; a three-month trial compulsory, with a return of 'goods'- no questions asked, a guarantee.
"Stripped of family and identity, fed meager rations, consigned to hard wooden seats until we are to be, as Slobbery Jack suggested, sold into slavery—our mere existence is punishment enough."Said no nine year old ever.["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>