All of my superstitions exist inside, my fear of being reprimanded, of not having enough, or of everything turning sour brings them forward. Curses. Fears.

I had a brother who told me, “Don’t brag,” when I was excited about a new dress. And Mom didn’t like me giving toys away. Plenty. Enough.

In a way, I am superstitious. I fear my past. The disapproval I feel, and the disappointment I know is my superstition. They jump out and remind me I must return to my lane. But part of me sees the fear. I am excited and then afraid of reprisal. It’s what I know. Family. Repeating.