6 years old. Mom just sent me to my room for “snipping at her” for who can remember what. I slam the door in a huff, yelling, “I hate you!” and “You’re not my mommy!” I stomp around he floor. I pound my fists onto the bed. I cry hot tears. I pull a black vinyl record out of its sleeve & place its hole over the pin of my portable record player, turning the dial up high. She’ll be sorry!
But anger melts into remorse, and not ten minutes later I write a note, in red and blue marker — “I love you mommy” — & slide it under the door.
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