I keep coming back to this memory. Cousin S is babysitting my brother and me. It must be summer because she takes us to the Kings Highway movie theater to see Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Afterwards, we’re waiting for the bus on Coney Island Ave. It’s taking f-o-r-e-v-e-r. I turn to the brick wall behind us, try to decipher the translucent white squiggles.
“So you’re a graffiti reader?” she asks. I think I’m holding her hand. I can’t remember.
What’s that? I want to know, am intrigued, but don’t ask. I am not a very verbal ten-year-old. I suppose I am a graffiti reader, but I don’t know what it means. Only that S is interested and maybe pleased.
What to do with these hunks of memory? What to do?