Broken

It broke somewhere between
the top of the ladder
And the bottom.

My leg, that is.

It is a lost moment
Because of a turned father’s back
And a squishy toddler brain.

Like when you wake up on your couch
On the morning after your 25th Birthday
and aren’t sure how you got home.
But you were at the bar,
And now you’re here
And the rest is a blurry question mark
You can piece together from context clues.

But all we can know for sure is that
By the time I reached the ground
I had a broken leg.

When a two year old breaks a bone,
It is less serious than when an infant breaks a bone
But more serious than when most other people break a bone.

But how constricting can it be
To live in a half body cast
If most of it has slipped
out of the lock box in your brain
in the dead of night.

Only snapshots of
An IV
Annoyed Brothers
And
Winnie the Pooh
remain.

How can this be my trauma
Or my story if I don’t remember it?

Or when they hand me
three new letters to describe my brain
And everything is
Clearer
And
Heavier
At the same time.

How can I have always been this way
If I didn’t know I was this way for so long?

How can I be sad that nobody saw me fall,
if I didn’t see it either?