Memory makes a fool of me. I think I remember it, the many sisters in one bed, but I don’t remember anything at all. 

I don’t remember my childhood. 

I see pictures in Mammy’s photo albums. 

I go to that room in the house where we grew up and I try to recall something that I can tell my curious girl about, but all I remember are quick flashes and then they are gone again. 

I remembered a story once and then it wasn’t mine to tell. 

I don’t even fully know what my sisters looked like. Not one bit. I don’t remember their young faces, their smells, the stories. 

There was one night where we played in a cave through a storm and we used my glow worm to light the cave which was the big blanket.  We looked out at the storm and sang and were pirates and were washed up. 

There is a recollection that at one point we had a double and a single bed drawn together into one enormous bed. It was full of pillows.

I know it was squashed. I know it was squeezed. I know that we argued like big families do, that all hell broke lose and doors were slammed off their hinges.

I know there were tears sobbed into them pillows over boyfriends and test scores.

I know that it was locked a good deal when we wanted privacy and banged on by everyone else to get in, because the urgency of needing something that was never so important before only sprung up when the click was heard.

I know there were many’s the hug.

I know there was a lot of laughing.

I know there is a lot to remember…