Friday, September 27, 2013

My earliest memory

It was so green. Ferns and trees covered the long slope behind our apartment just big enough for my mom, her husband and the three of us kids. 

My step dad and I were out on the small deck and I can still feel the rush of the wind and the terror in my bones as he tossed me higher and higher in the air. I was giggling and screaming for him to stop at the same time. It was exhilarating and terrifying. 

I can remember the feeling of love and comfort in his arms as he would catch me. I would rest my head on his chest and hear him talk. His voice rumbles from his chest into my ear as I hear him talk about work and plans for our new house. The one my Papa built. 

I was three. My life was just beginning and my memories just starting to form. My memory is like a patchwork quilt inside my head made of colors and images sometimes little clips of what felt like out of body experiences. I can see myself flying into the air. I can see myself curled up against the wall crying or screaming down the hallway. 

If I can remember little things, meaningless things; why can I not remember an appointment that's been scheduled or to put my sons homework in his back pack? Sometimes to even flush the toilet. 


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