Movement

I don't know what will happen, but I'd like to have a say. The most terrible feelings are followed by euphoria. A sensation of a tiny me swimming in stomach. Then: land. The relief when endorphins release. My therapist tells me that in times of fear I can remember three joyful moments in my life and be grateful. She says sheepishly that she heard this idea from Oprah. I, half listening to what she says next, try to find these moments but what are they? Memory is difficult now. People say remember Mom and Dad, the good times. I recall my mother's face smiling between each railing as I began walking down the stairs, but I don't. I remember the fast food breakfasts my father brought home Saturday mornings after he taught yoga. We ate upstairs with Mom, newspaper tablecloth on the bed. How do I feel about my childhood? This is a question I do not ask. Rather, how has their murder affected me? Innumerable. You want me to qualify, but I choose to quantify. I live between bookends of innumerable. I run between both ends, stop, plead for rest, get lost in forests, stay for some time alone, but run again because society thinks it strange, thinks I am strange, been called broken, but I refuse that title. That language.