by Keetje KuipersMy earliest memory is someone else's. A few years later, I eat all the yellow flowers off the clover, the first of 1000 small secrets I'll forget. The little boys are my neighbors and I spend each afternoon making us a home. Soon my legs grow so long they are other than myself. More parts follow, scaffolding becomes necessary. The marching band plays songs I know by heart; I mean that I memorize all the words. Each time I get on a plane, I'm someone new, until I'm so good I don't need to fly to transform. When my parents are suddenly more tired than they've ever been, I take over the farm, the spoonfeeding. One minute I'm becoming myself, the next I'm forgetting how.
