Mary Demers

I lay sprawled out on the green carpeted mud room floor, helplessly covered in large chunks of sharpened glass which seemed to paralyze each and every part of my body that they touched. On a warm sunny afternoon in early July about 11 years ago, when I was 5 years old, I remember the time my family barbecue in the small countryside neighborhood where I lived left me, to this day, with a memory that I will probably never forget. Filled with a plate of kiwi, watermelon, and half of a hot dog I carefully skipped over to the green picnic table which I had loved to jump off pretending it was a diving board and began to eat my idea of a gourmet meal. Soon after I practically inhaled my food, which left a pink stained hand print on my white dress from my watermelon treat, I ran over to the pool not caring that I had just stained yet another one of my dresses and ripped off the dress onto the ground and hopped in.