That Day

I don't remember how I met my best friend, 
but I remember That Day. 

I don't remember how I felt 
when the lungs embedded in my grandpa 
turned to ash like the poison sticks he smoked, 
but I remember That Day. 

I don't remember the equations that 
unlocked a whole new world of spiraling numbers 
from trigonometry, 
but I remember That Day. 

I remember the clothes I wore: 
white short sleeved shirt, pink button-up 
with stripes like shiny bamboo, 
knee-high socks that no one could see 
underneath Mossimo jeans, 
my favorite black boots with tassels and charms on the sides 
and just a hint of a chunky heel. 
I remember That Day. 

I remember how we started off playing tag in a group of ten, 
and I remember how you slowed down, 
letting others catch you. 
You wanted to be It. 
I remember how you caught up to me, 
grabbed my wrist, 
pulled me, dragged me,  
hint of a chunky heel digging into loose rocks and dirt, 
leaving my own Trail of Tears. 
I remember That Day. 

I remember how you pushed me on the ground, 
suffocated me with all of you, 
like an unwanted comforter in the middle of summer. 
I remember how your hands slid up and down 
underneath my white short sleeved shirt and pink button-up 
with stripes like shiny bamboo, 
reaching the gate to my Mossimo jeans. 
I remember That Day. 

I remember my silence, 
and how inside my head, there was anything but. 
I remember looking to the side, eyes like a frightened doe, 
convinced that if I could focus with sight, I would stop feeling. 
I remember my friends pulling you off, 
until you weren't It anymore. 
I remember running 
like you still were. 
I remember That Day. 

And I think That Day is why I can't remember anything else. 
Because I try so hard to forget That Day, 
that I block out everything else, 
leaving only one memory: 
the fear I felt on 
That Day. 

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