I used to have a dream that repeated itself over and over. A woman in a long white dress would chase me. I’d be afraid to turn and see her face, afraid to trip and fall, she would catch me and stab her knife into my back. I didn’t turn but knew her face was covered by straight long black hair. I don’t know who she was. I’d always wake with the pain of a knife in my back and the sound of her screaming.

My father was mostly never home. Always far away looking for work. I remember seeing him once by surprise on a dirt road in town. He recognized me immediately, though I hadn’t seen him in months. He whispered some words to me and sang me a song that I no longer understand. He put his hand on my neck and walked me to a store and got me some food and gave me a little money, then said something and left me to stand there.

I was very hungry in those days. So hungry. My mouth tasted so bad and my breath smelled from acid in my stomach which rose and seldom got to work on food. My stomach ate me and I sank inward.

Most of my brothers were away too, working somewhere. They brought home food when they could. There wasn’t much room though. We slept on blankets laid on the floor. In the night or early mornings they’d step over me and disappear like ghosts.

A river down the road had fish and I could sometimes catch them with my hands. There was a shallow bend I’d wait in. Once I went. I hadn’t eaten in a few days. I stood in the water and hunger made me wait and wait. I looked down into the water. My shadow was very small, almost as if I didn’t really stand there. I couldn’t catch a fish. I tried for hours. I was happy though. The river smelled sweet, like cut grass and the taste of corn. Eventually I saw a frog and grabbed for it quickly. You have to be very quick, I remember. One brother, just a little older than me, sometimes came along and tried. He was not quick enough. I was so hungry that day I thought I’d try and cook it and eat it. That wasn’t a very good idea. I think it was still raw inside and tasted wet and dead. And I threw up most of it and spit into the dirt.

Late one summer I passed a private yard. The smell of ripe apples came through the fence and I climbed it and gorged myself like a pig, throwing cores all over the place. A man came out and yelled and ran toward me. I grabbed a bunch, more than I could carry. I dropped most of them climbing the fence. He nearly had me but I ran. He chased me for a while, panting. I could hear him. And then I ran faster and he stopped. I kept running and running. I took an apple from my pocket and threw it in the air and caught it. It tasted sweet.

My father died when I was five. I remember a terrible taste in my mouth, like the dead raw frog. I don’t remember feeling very much. I hadn’t seen my father in so long and could barely remember his voice. I cannot remember everything of those days, how I felt, or what I thought exactly. My memory is vague, folded within a language and a country I’ve forgotten. And my mother does not play a role. Mother died shortly after giving birth to me. I didn’t feel anything then and remember nothing except maybe her white gown and long black hair which covers a face I cannot see.