Choosing Against Conspiracy Theories

It was a cold day in hell

Sometimes when my hands are bitter cold, when the skin of them seems shriveled and blue, especially my fingertips, when step out into a blustery and frigid day, I remember the day of my emancipation.

They say it is often scent or taste help us recall our memories and my body remembers a cold day. The day my mother gathered her children—some of us already adults—and told us to put our coats on and get in the van. “Good luck selling your soul to the devil,” my father spat out to me as I opened the door to the deck. There was a pit the size of a raw rump roast in my stomach and throat. I wrapped my scarf around my neck and reached into my coat pockets to find my gloves. They were missing.

If I would sell my soul to the devil, I would do it with cold hands.