To describe our growing up in the lowcountry of South Carolina, I would have to take you to the marsh on a spring day, flush the great blue heron from its silent occupation, scatter marsh hens as we sink to our knees in mud, open an oyster with a pocketknife and feed it to you from the shell and say, 'There. That taste. That's the taste of my childhood.'
These are the quicksilver moments of my childhood I cannot remember entirely. Irresistible and emblematic, I can recall them only in fragments and shivers of the heart.
I loved my parents... but that can never change the fact that my father's violence ruined my childhood.
My father wouldn't let me take typing in childhood.
There are no verdicts to childhood, only consequences, and the bright freight of memory.
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