There are many moments a child can remember, and far too many seconds one can recall.

I remember witnessing my father’s second wedding, or my half-brother’s brainwashing.

I remember being called negative all my life.

But those aren’t moments, those are events.

Moments are fugacious. Memorable. Traumatizing.

‘It does not have to be something negative’.

Perhaps I have been called negative because all the moments I can recall are negative.

A moment I remember is a rude, spitting redneck- a friend of my father’s, insulting my immigrant mother.

A moment I remember is running from my former stepmother, grinning from fear, shaking my phone in front of her face, the one she attempted to steal.

A moment I remember is crouching in the chirping night, right under a large oak tree a few pavements away from my childhood home’s fence, witnessing the slow death of an eyeless mouse.

Moments don’t necessarily shape you, but they break something in you. They whisper something completely unforgettable. They remind you who you are. Moments are haunting.