“He touched me while I was sleeping and I said your name.”
I heard Isaiah hold his breath through the phone.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Well…I have a journal where I wrote down everything I"ve ever wanted to say to you and can"t. He read it.”
“Ouch,” Isaiah said. “And?”
“He hit me.”
Silence.
“He…what?”
“He hit me.”
I don"t remember what Isaiah said after that. I don"t remember much else of anything except that summer.
* * *
It was summer of 1999. Isaiah and I were nineteen and I had found grapes my uncle had planted nearly forty years ago in the backyard. I was in the process of digging them up and had invited Isaiah over to help. We spent that morning replanting roses.
We had three roses, bare and covered in thorns. Some new leaves had begun to sprout. The dog had dug them ou
