Emotional scars of childhood are not tiny. They grow in silence, like criminal tumors. Toxic hurts leak into our adult facades of normalcy, sometimes bursting like infected surgical wounds. Memories, sandwiched like the day’s heat between green meadows and sunset, rise toward purple clouds, toward precious truth.
Did parents think their children would not remember? Pediatricians preaching “babies are miniature adults who should be left crying in cribs to learn lessons” contributed to (sometimes innocent) abuse.
Defenseless. until the pen.