The memory is vivid.

I am three years old. Maybe four?

Whatever.

I am a tiny girl in a department store

Rails of clothes tower above me.

My mother nearby is

Choosing pretty things.

A man.

A raincoat

Yes, I experienced the cliché.

An inappropriate hand finds me in an inappropriate place.

A split second knowing this is very wrong.

I find my mama.

I hold her hand tight.

But I say nothing

For over 50 years.

I still don’t know why.

How many little girls did he stalk between rails of clothing?

Elsewhere?

I have never liked raincoats.