In one memory, I would tell her, I am four years old. I know this because I’m at my aunt Shirley’s house in Florida and she only lived in that house the year I was four. There are hibiscus flowers and saw palmettos in the yard and I am running barefoot across the rough, scratchy Florida grass, playing a game like tag with my cousin Kenny and the two girls who live next door. When they catch him, the girls cover Kenny in kisses, something they don’t do when they catch me. I understand, for the first time, that I am not a boy. I didn’t quite know it before and now I do. It is not a happy
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