Adena M'lynn's Voice

  by Adena M’lynn They say time only moves forward— but that’s a lie my body knows better than my brain. Because some days, I swear I feel the hands of yesterday wrapped around my ankles, dragging me backwards through years I worked hard to outrun. I’m grown now… with bills and keys and a mailbox full of things that pretend I’m whole. But inside, there’s still that small girl with knees pressed into carpet, breathing like she’s praying, counting the seconds between footsteps in the hallway like her life depends on getting to ten before the doorknob turns. And it always turned before she got to ten. Memory is a cruel magician— pulling me onto the stage, spotlight hot against my cheeks, whispering  “Watch closely.” Then it saws me in half again. Suddenly I’m back there, in the house where shadows knew my name. But not all of it was shadow. Because sometimes— right in the middle of the terror— a softer memory slips in, like mercy with a scent. Strawberry soap. My Nana’s hands was...

The kitchen is a witness. It sees mornings begin with quick bowls of cereal, and evenings end with plates piled high, waiting to be washed clean. The fridge keeps the record— drawings in crayon, photos held by magnets, notes that curl at the edges. Each one tells a piece of the story. The kettle speaks through steam. The pots show their dents, each scratch a memory of meals shared and fights survived. The mixer stands strong, steady through birthdays and holidays, holding the weight of celebration. At night, when the lights go out, the kitchen stays. It keeps every sound, every smell, every mark— a silent witness to the life lived here.