I remember food. I remember chocolate cakes and strawberry shortcake and pork chops and barbecue and fried chicken. I remember my grandmother’s pound cake, though I don’t re- member it too well. I remember my Great-Aunt Jonnie Mae’s pecan pies and her blueberry cobblers and her carrot cake. I remember my Aunt Rachel’s spaghetti with ground hamburger and onions and mushrooms and garlic and how she would let it simmer all day. I remember my Aunt Rebecca cooking chitlins, fussing about the work it took to clean them. I remember the stink they made in the house and everyone complaining and then eating their fill. I remember my Aunt Ruthester’s chocolate-chip cookies and how she would make an extra batch for me. I remember them best hot, the chocolate pulling long when you broke it in half. I remember the way it made my mouth happy, dissolving almost as soon as I ate it, buttery and hot.

I remember finally touching a man, finally kissing him. I remember the surprise and shock of someone else’s tongue in my mouth. I remember the taste of someone else’s saliva. I remember actually feeling someone else’s flesh, warm, smooth. I remember the texture of hair that was not mine, thighs that were not mine, a waist that was not mine. I remember the gamy smell of pubic hair. I remember being happy that I was taking a chance with my immortal soul, thinking that I would somehow win in the end and live still, feeling immortal in a mortal’s arms. I remember then regretting that it was such a sin. I remember the feeling I got after we climaxed, feeling hollow and undone, wishing I were some kind of animal, a wolf or a bird or a dolphin, so I would not have to worry about wanting to do it again; I remember worrying how the other person felt.