4.29

I keep coming back to the night when I got hit in my head with a rock the size of my fist by a boy named Keith, he had blonde hair, too. It was dusk and we were sweet with sweaty faces from the day; running up and down the driveway, picking blackberries until our fingers were bruised, putting our ears on the black dog's belly to feel the puppies kick our cheeks, and telling stories about the basement Jabberwocky, who I always envisioned being a walking tree. He felt bad, probably got the dry throat for not crying. I bled, a lot; mom took me home, washed my hair and looked for ticks among the bloody strands.