“Fine, then. I’m going to go through every single book, and for each picture and sentence I find, you get one smack on the back of your hand with the ruler.” I felt a sense of relief. The ruler stung, yes, but it wasn’t near as bad as the strap, and was much easier than her hands, which often pinched and squeezed and left little bruises.

“Hold out your hand.”

My right hand lifted slowly as she began going through Mulberry Street. Keely’s little damp palm and tiny fingers remained firmly clamped onto my left hand. It didn’t take long before a crooked penciled-in horse showed itself, and I heard Keely’s sharp intake of breath, followed by a small sob – the drawing was hers. “SHHH,” I hissed.

SMACK.

Shirley’s strike with the ruler was hard and her aim was true. My hand was forced downward from the blow and I gasped loudly. Little had I realized that a ruler spanking on the thigh, or the arm, or the butt, is not equal to a ruler spanking on the back of a small, soft hand. The welt began to rise almost immediately, and I farted and pooped some more as I looked at the stack of books and thought of the many writings and drawings my sister and I had created together.

After several books I began to cry. Keely was silent as her tears streamed and her knees shook. The smell of poop was in the air, acrid in my nose, and I felt it sitting like a weight in my panties. I silently Maybelle-chanted for her to miss some pages, skip a book, anything, to end the pain being delivered. I shook Keely’s hand away so that I could offer up my left to give relief to the right.

The book pile dwindled slowly. Keely trembled while I took the punishment for our creative editing. The strike of wood upon my hands seemed endless as I switched them out, time and time again, in an attempt to stop the pain. When they started to bleed, she stopped.

And my memory of that day ends there.

I loved my books as a girl – they transported me to a place that was vastly different from my reality – and I eagerly clamored to read as many as I could. My addiction and love is unchanged to this day. I continue to disappear into those enticing pages every chance I get and my home is filled with hundreds of books. As I sat in my recliner with my book and recollected that childhood memory, however, this artiste d’amatuer became painfully aware that, since the day my hands were bloodied for the transgression of two smalls girls who dared to color their joy onto the pages of paper friends, only my name marks the inside of each one.