When I was three and a half years old, I murdered a woman. I spent the next 50 years retracing and recovering bent memories that had long been buried by the great force of denial.
I went back and fought to uncover the truth that had been buried on 40 acres, in a sink hole, on my parents’ property. I went back because I too was a murderer. I may have been only three but I was old enough to feel the guilt when we walked out of that room alive and she did not.
I was old enough to know that I now shared a secret with my father and his friend that no one else would ever know. We three would stay connected for the rest of our lives, incarcerated together with only each other as accomplices.
Not a matter of speaking, but a matter of fact: I am guilty of murder just as they are.
Sink holes do exist . . .