The first teachers
I am three and a half.
My sister is not born yet.
My father and I wrestle on the living room floor.
Piggyback rides.
My giggling fills the room.
My mother presses the iron firmly over my father's undershorts.
Her cheek cocked to one side.
A look aimed at me, maybe at my father too.
I stop.
Not breathing.
My eyes fill.
I have done something wrong.
My mother says I am sensitive to light.
I am sensitive.
Just not to light.