In Greek, truth is alethea.
A for not, Lethe for the river of forgetting.
True is not the opposite of false.
True is the opposite of forgotten.
This is my first memory, the first boulder
piercing the waters.
A clear roundness at eye level, and inside
a tiny waving flag of orange
with a head. Two frills on either side,
pumping like accordions. What lay behind?
What was the secret power? I had to know.
I scooped the creature out, into my hand.
It pumped a few times harder, and then stopped.
I am sorry now, poor fish. I had no time
to be sorry then, or even to understand
what had happened. I had no notion of dying.
But I had fear, as Mom arrived
with a bang and a roar, and a strange
accusation: Did you stab the fish
with a pencil? I didn’t know what “stab” was.
There was no pencil there.
But she seemed oddly satisfied, as though
I’d finally done the horrid thing
she had been waiting for.
I could not argue, for I had no words
for what I’d done, but felt
it must be something even worse.
Safer to give in to her story,
accept her punishment, comply.
The first thing I remember is learning to lie.
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