69/

I am playing outside. I am crying in the bathtub, soaking my swollen leg. I am told the word yellowjacket. I don’t know what it means. There is a nest of them by the pool. My mother bobs her foot faster when my father speaks; but I don’t remember what they say. I am in a house full of boxes. My parents take the glow-in-the-dark stars off my ceiling, and part of the paint rips off too. I am standing by the pool, scared of the nest even after being told it’s gone. I am underwater, craning my neck back to watch the bubbles rush up toward shimmering light. I am asked what happened and don’t know how to answer. I live in two houses, and neither has a pool. The drawers in one are full of cobwebs. I am afraid of spiders. I am sitting on a couch and a stranger asks me if I remember almost drowning. I am confused by the question. The stranger asks if I know why lots of different things have happened. I am asked if I think everything must have a why or a because. I think maybe. The because seems to happen very fast. I think I must not be quick enough to catch it.