Fragments of a Memory

Leggings.

I remember leggings.

They were a rotten green and dusty lilac.

Striped and wrapping such small legs.

And such fragile space between them.

My mom gave me the talk.

Maybe not the talk.

but a talk of sorts.

"No one is to touch you there."

I remembered it so vividly.

We were in her car.

It was blue.

And I didn't understand what it meant to bear the burdens of a girl.

Hands.

I remember hands.

Or maybe just hand.

Only the one mattered.

But I'm sure there were two.

I don't remember at what age I outgrew these leggings.

I don't remember them ever disappearing from my dresser drawers.

I guess they just did one day.

I don't think I missed them.

I don't think I noticed.

The hand I remember was on my leggings.

I remember nothing else.