Enga mellom fjella

Dot, Dot, Dorothy

Everyone seemed old growing up and one had to keep track of which Aunt Dot they were talking about.

Big Dot, Little Dot, Dorothy.

Thankfully Aunt Verna had her own name.

And there were those never mentioned around children.

Like Uncle Oscar who prostituted his daughter and thankfully fell off a float.

Everyone knew everyone's faults but were closed mouth — unless they were drunk.

I was the damaged fruit from a sober branch, not allowed to speak to family — the invisible silent one.

But, even I knew who favored who and how my mother and aunt mixed like oil and water.

That sad fair-haired child with a wan smile smile still plays hide-and-seek with his shadow.