The morning after the Berlin wall fell, I ate cocoa puffs, my husband says. He was three, just learning to grasp at the slippery slope of memory, still too young to know what exclusion meant, to know what walls could signify.
As for me, I remained stubbornly unborn, as I would for another three years, my first memories scheduled to form in a different decade, in another scene. This too is a sort of wall, but perhaps one I should respect, not scale or tear down, I think to myself, as I set out hot tea and buttered toast for our breakfast.
EDITOR’S NOTE: This poem was selected from entries submitted to our Creative Challenge Series #5: Word Salad, which required that the words bolded in the text must be included. Read other Creative Challenge winners. To find out how to participate, go to Creative Challenges.