submitted by Amber Johnston

click to play: You by Amber Johnston

10 Years Old

Garden

The home of my parents remains as it did 17 years ago, when traumatic events filled its rooms, a memento moiré for lost childhood. The garden in the back of the house has not been touched since his banishment. Briars and weeds fill the sunken landscape. A fountain that used to nourish the pond lays on it’s side, buried in the decay of over a decade. Bare winter branches expose a scene of molestation, recognizable only by two. The garage sinks ever deeper into the earth; wood rooting, wholes in the roof, waiting to be torn down. Waiting to forget. The 100-year-old house is split, red brick, and white panel, forgotten and ever present. Fingers of ivy, naked, crawl across the paneling, filthy from the dirt yard below, like veins that offer no life. Inside, old doors, paint chipping from lack of care, still hide sexual betrayals, closed off to the rest of the family. The bedroom of the brother, perpetrator, is used as a storage space. Filled with childhood toys and memories, it literally holds the baggage to a past of which no one in the family can seem to rid themselves.

His Room

His Ceiling

Corner

Bathtime

Dismembered