“Thirteen” by Julia Boughner

I remember the taste of lime ice I ate with a wooden spatula. I remember that I used to climb on top of my fence and walk along the top like a squirrel. I remember that a girl in my girl scout troop was dared to piss on the floor and she did and got in a lot of trouble. She wasn't allowed to perform in front of our parents in the talent show we were putting on. I remember I sang Boulevard of Broken Dreams and my mom coughed really loud to cover up the part where they said fuck. I remember when I went to Crete, Nebraska for the first time and fed the swans on the college lawn with the leaves of large weeds. Their favorite was a broad and veiny one that grew by the pond. I remember going to Bent’s fort in fourth grade and buying a gold key from their antique collection. When I got home I found out that it worked to lock my bedroom door, somehow, and I showed it to all my friends until one time the key broke off in the lock and my mom had to call a locksmith to get us out. I remember when my friend’s brother hugged her on her birthday. I remember it was a tuesday. I remember laying on her bed and detailing everything that our families did as tradition on Christmas morning, even though it was September. I remember completely redoing the layout of the furniture in my room while my parents were asleep and startling them when they saw it the next morning. I remember setting up my hamster’s cage at the foot of my bed and kicking it onto its side in my sleep. I remember keeping a goldfish alive for seven years and coming home from school one day to find her floating pale belly-up at the bottom of the tank. I was too scared to tell my parents that she’d died so I left her there all evening until they told me they’d already known. I remember that I rode my bike all the way to Fashion Nation on 13th and my mom didn’t know. I remember I tried to bleach my hair with baking soda and lemon juice. I remember my dad sat me down on my bed when I was nine and asked me where his happy go lucky girl had gone. I remember every one of my mother’s miscarriages. I remember when my third grade best friend knocked out two of her adult teeth on the playground. Blood was everywhere and I was so scared I ran away instead of getting the nurse. I remember getting stuck in the back of my car at three in the morning on prom night. I remember when somebody else’s mother called me her daughter. I remember that a teacher gave me five dollars for lunch when I was in eighth grade, and he didn’t even know me, and it made me cry. I remember every time I’ve had to read that poem about plums in the icebox. I remember the field in Erie, Kansas, that was watched over by the Yellow Barn. I remember seeing an old man throw up on himself and feeling my youth collapse on me. I remember staying the night at the museum, unlike the movie, sleeping right underneath the taxidermy ostriches, and telling everyone I was a lot more scared of them than I actually was. I remember three small lives beside me, and all of their agony.

Julia Boughner is pursuing a major in public health and epidemiology. She has loved writing since preschool, and has improved marginally. She is an avid explorer of the outdoors, the library, and the Taco Bell menu.