mena roswell | eight | cb

m  e  n  a

You've never been one to sweat the details.

That's what people should know: you notice everything and you never forget, and be it a bird's first flight after recovering from a broken wing or the face of the first boy who would never know you existed, you also never forget. Sometimes, it makes life easier: you've always won arguments and people think of you as reliable. You remember numbers and recognize patterns and solve puzzles the fastest. You've studied the maps of Eight a thousand times over so you know that Russell street is the quickest way to your favorite deli and Tybalt Lane has a turn off that ends in a river and Ollivier Acres is the biggest gated community but it's just a spot on the map, whereas Rogan Heights takes up the most space and is also the poorest and most populated. You could point right to your street before you were even old enough to attend school classes. It's the bendy road to the north, the one shaped like a horseshoe. Roswell scribbled in neat ink above it.

But the truth is there are so many things you wish you could forget: The smell of spoiled milk, the time you wore your shirt inside out to school. The time you found out that your dog, Lucky, hadn't just ran away. Andy tripping over your dollhouse and shattering it. The panic in your dad's voice when he woke you and dragged you to the hospital. The doctor's gaze falling to the ground as he walked closer to you and your father. The sound of your mother's breath hitching and catching in her throat, the sound of silence that followed. The funeral.

You remember the black dress you wore, and how you cut it up with scissors and told your dad it was an accident. He knew it was on purpose but he didn't say so. He didn't say much of anything: you remember that too.