Personal Narrative: Bondage
Bondage
I reminiscently mentioned a story to my mother, decades after she told it, when I was very young. I explained how occasionally the thought of it would rear its ugly head and briefly haunt me. Mom didn’t recall the event, but was mortified she could have told me such a story. Or did she? My recognition was she told me the story one night as she tucked me into bed–a bed with a nice big head board. (<This, pertinent to the story.) And on this night, in lieu of a nice bedtime story of happy bears, or a cute nose twitching bunny, or a world made of candy, I can swear we had the following conversation. (With a few flourishes) I climbed into my bed, sliding between cool crisp sheets as my mommy pulled them up and tucked them
I reminiscently mentioned a story to my mother, decades after she told it, when I was very young. I explained how occasionally the thought of it would rear its ugly head and briefly haunt me. Mom didn’t recall the event, but was mortified she could have told me such a story. Or did she? My recognition was she told me the story one night as she tucked me into bed–a bed with a nice big head board. (<This, pertinent to the story.) And on this night, in lieu of a nice bedtime story of happy bears, or a cute nose twitching bunny, or a world made of candy, I can swear we had the following conversation. (With a few flourishes) I climbed into my bed, sliding between cool crisp sheets as my mommy pulled them up and tucked them