When I was eight, we listened to WCVB at six o’clock on the tiny, 8-inch TV/radio that we stashed on the kitchen counter, next to the rotary phone. When I was eight, I went to my cousin’s house in Chelmsford for fun and cried in my bedroom at night when my parents fought. When I was eight, I ate Cheetos on the bed with my mother when we watched Family Matters on Friday nights. When I was eight, I didn’t hear about the latest catastrophe until we had finally gotten home from Boston that night at 7. When I was eight, I swore I would never drink a drop of alcohol. When I was eight, I had a cat named Pretty who snorted when she was mad. When I was eight, everything was fairly fucked up but at least nobody died.
…and that’s all she could write.
