When I was 5 years old,
I still had my pacifier.
My parents had read on the internet that
when it was taken away
I'd scream and cry about it,  
but then forget.
I didn't forget.

My mother said she never
heard anyone scream that loud,
or fight that hard.
My father joked that I had rattled the walls
with my cries.
They still refused to give it back to me.

Maybe that's why my fingernails
or the inside of my cheeks
become the victim of my teeth,
anytime I get nervous.

When I was twelve years old,
I still slept with a stuffed monkey,
worn with age.
I loved Milli more than most things,
and certainly most people
Then our airline lost my suitcase,
with her on it.

My mother laughed
as I started crying, screaming,
"Where is she!?"
My father joked that I turned
into a toddler for a minute there.
I never saw Milli again.

Maybe that's why pillows
or my Bible
become the victim of my grip,
anytime someone screams at me.