My Earliest Memory
Memories are funny little things. They warp and change with
time, become fuzzy and then sharpen in an instant. First memories are even
trickier. Memories before I had language feel more like dreams, like movies of
someone else’s life. I don’t trust these early memories. I didn’t own the words
for the things that surrounded me, so they come off feeling false.
I remember a house and a big wicker chair. I really liked
that chair. I think I wanted to sit in it but wasn’t allowed. I remember a dog
as large as me, his tongue licking my face, but we never owned a dog. Maybe the
dog was really made of wicker. Maybe I licked his face. I remember a big piece
of cement in the courtyard, painted yellow with something protruding from the
middle. A fire hydrant, perhaps? I would climb on it, feeling tall. It was my
playground. I was cold. I lived in Alaska at the time, but didn’t know that
then.
I remember Wonder Woman Underoos and a comic book. My
brother and I drizzling syrup on it for absolutely no reason. Laughing, feeling
naughty and exhilarated, not afraid of punishment. Not afraid of anything, yet.
Did it really happen?
I remember a box of laundry detergent falling down the
basement stairs, spilling the white soap crystals everywhere. Or did someone
tell me that story? Did I create that image out of thin air? Was it something that
happened to someone else entirely?
My early memories feel as true as the fiction I create. I
don’t trust either one of them, but I’m no less grateful for them. Stories heal and fracture, entertain and help us to understand. We craft our own stories about our lives. Unless you’re
a Kardashian and have your every moment recorded, you have to create a sort of
fiction for your life, believe whatever you want to about your past.
The past is as pliable as the future, you just have to know
what to remember and what is best forgotten.
:-D Enjoyed every word.
ReplyDelete:-D Enjoyed every word.
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