There's a word for this, this hailstorm
of memories: auto-nostalgia.
You remember yourself before the wind shifted,
back to making quilts in the eiderdown softness of your room,
with your parents arguing downstairs:
the hum of angry bees coming up through the floorboards.

That year, you began to resent bees, collecting them
like prisoners-of-war in jam-jars, hating their feebleness
and the way they screamed as they whirred themselves
around like motors. Even now,
you remember the sound a bee makes when it is desperate.

Scandalized by your own wickedness, you'd run out into the long grass
and empty the viscid corpses of bees
out at the base of bushes. Then your mother
would call and everything would move: you remember
looking up as the sky roared and opened.