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Show Moon - 4 asleep, Michael crept into her bed. "You hurt me bad," he whispered. "And all I ever did was love you." When his hand slipped up under her nightgown, she knew she had no right to say anything in her own defense, not ever. This is what I read between the lines of my mother's forehead, within the silences that completed her sentences instead of words. Perhaps I am magnifying, distorting even, under the lens of these second-hand memories and my own conclusions. But I don't think so. I think she never got to belong to herself again. Even so, she was joyous, I'm sure of it, excited, like a hummingbird trembling on the brink of scarlet flowers that held out their tongues to her like panting dogs. Anne held inside herself a secret place, hot and hidden. It is probable that no one noticed, not even Michael, who noticed nothing but his own need. Anne drew pictures on a sketch pad she kept hidden under her bed. She sat beside the big elm tree and studied the way the branches arched out from the trunk, the way the leaves were fastened to the twigs, the texture of the bark. Secretly she studied faces, hands, the curve of armpits, the swirl of hair at the crown. When Anne was thirteen, Michael started talking at the dinner table about Europe and the threat of war. "There's a man called Hitler, and he's got to be stopped." He'd wave his fork for emphasis, which made Ruth press her lips together. "I want to be among the first to fight him. I want to go." His father shook his head and said, "America isn't going to be in any more wars. We learned our lesson." Michael shrugged, caught Anne's eye and winked. She blushed, and later alone in her bed she wept, for she did not want him to go away, even though she had prayed he would leave forever. Michael |