Then suddenly, it comes back to me. In spurts and tears, but it comes back.

--*

It was a summer night.
Not one of those nights that people sing about in love songs, though.
It was hot and sticky, and my shirt clung to my back in different places, making lumps and bumps wherever it wasn’t quite even.
I was almost eleven – my birthday was in ten days – and I’m sure I still had Popsicle around the edges of my mouth.
Yet they still picked me.
I wasn’t greatly endowed in any way – in fact, I was still waiting for normal body parts to arrive – and yet-
They still picked me.
Why?
I asked myself that question every night before I went to sleep for a long, long time, and still I don’t know the answer. I’m not even sure if there is an answer. Maybe not all things have answers. I wish they did.