My mother is smashing my Jack-in-the-box with a broom. I know not to cry. Toys and games are the work of the Devil. She tells me to find all of Jack’s pieces. She puts them in the can for the garbage man.

*

My aunt and uncle are here. My mother grows a black cloud when her brother comes. She says he’s a bad man. My aunt is bad, too.

My uncle plays a game with my toes. “This little piggy went to market.” I laugh. My mother’s cloud gets blacker. I know to go to my bad corner.

My aunt says, “Come sit on my lap, honey.” The black gets thick. I hide my face in the corner so no one can see me.

 *

It’s hitting time. Nighttime is when my father hurts me down where the Devil is. Morning is when my mother hits me to make the Devil come out.

I fall down this time. She has a baby in her belly. Her belly is too big. She can’t hit me on the floor. She says, “Stand up.” I try hard to be good. But I fall down again. She stomps on my face. I watch her big black shoe going up, coming down. I shut my eyes and go away.

I hear my uncle come in the house. He says, “Peggy, Peggy, Peggy. What are you doing?” He takes her away from me.

The sun is coming through the window. I feel warm.

My uncle finds a coat for me. He carries me like I’m a baby. He takes me to his house. My aunt was a nurse. She doesn’t hurt me when she washes off the blood. She has pretty pink stuff that doesn’t hurt me when she puts it on the cuts.

They take me to a doctor when it gets dark. He says, “She won’t lose her eye.” He’s a silly doctor. I can’t lose my eye. I know where it is.

*

My uncle is teaching me to read. We don’t have books. They might have the Devil in them. My mother has a Bible. She says I would hurt it if I touched it.

We read from the newspaper. We sit close together on the sofa. I feel warm.

The first word I learn is “and.” My uncle turns the page. All the “ands” jump up into my eyes. I laugh.

My mother comes from the kitchen. Her cloud comes with her. The “ands” know to hide in my tummy.

She says, “What’s going on in here?”

My uncle says, “There’s a picture of a little puppy in the paper.”

She goes away.

I whisper, “Are words bad if they’re inside me?”

My uncle says, “Words are your friends.”

Carol Roan holds a graduate degree in vocal performance from Indiana University, where she learned to love words in several languages, not only for their untranslatable nuances in meaning, but for their sheer sound. She also has a graduate degree in business from Columbia University, where she learned to tell a story with numbers. See her website, www.carolroan.com, for more of her words.

Image Credit: http://www.theopenalgorithm.com/