The Burden of Awareness

My parents taught me how to notice things. Not in a curious way.

In a useful way. When we visited friends, I learned where the spare keys were

hidden, which doors stuck, which lights stayed on at night. At home,

my father asked questions like homework. My mother wrote the answers down. They said it was

a game. They said I was gifted. When houses started getting robbed,

I stopped sleeping. When the police showed up at our door, my parents cried

on cue. They said I was troubled. That I imagined things.

That I needed help. Juvenile detention taught me something different. It taught me that