My earliest memories - Creative Writing class assingment
My earliest memories
I was late to my own party coming out to this world two weeks too late - that is the first thing one can say about me. And although it is not my memory it is still the beginning of my consciousness of me as a human being. You can learn little from my parent’s tales of their children - my brother was much more of a party boy - probably because I was not standing out in any way as a child. Well, perhaps not quite.
When I mention this people look at me doubtfully and ask how it was even possible. Who knows? Still, it is a fact well documented in my relatives’ memories; I used to sleep with my legs vertical. And no matter how hard they tried they never managed to make me sleep like a normal child should. Simply because whenever they applied pressure to my child legs I sat up as if nothing happened, remaining deep asleep.
But neither does this picture belong to me.
An event which, I suppose, is only mine to possess was a trip documented in a couple of pictures.
A black and white park, black and white parents; a black and white, apparently two-years old, little blond girl. Despite the monochromacy I remember the red of the dungarees I wore. And the brisk of the day, in spite of the lack of fragrance in the photograph.
I ran, that cheerful childish patter leaving my parents a few steps behind. And though I must have weighed very little at that time, my little feet must have thudded over the beams of the bridge I jumped on. In my head, the railings of the bridge are as red as my trousers, maybe with a hint of white. And as I ran a movement from below the bridge caught my attention.
I do not remember what it was anymore; maybe a duck, or a ray of sunlight reflected in the water. What is important is that I stopped in the middle of the bridge looking beneath, between the beams and next thing I know I’m watching my pacifier that must have fallen out of my mouth rolling over the beams. It rolled and rolled until it disappeared in the aquamarine depth. And I could only watch as it swims away red, because every meaningful thing in this memory strikes with red.
What a tragedy for the black and white blonde little girl.
The following memories, although do not lack color they lack chronology.
As I try to make sense of the glimpses and pieces a memory of Doran surfaces. Our St. Bernard.
I remember me and my father returning from an excursion of sorts. I believe we visited my mother in the hospital, which would mean that my brother has just joined us. But to look outside the veranda window I would have to be much older, which is why I am not sure about my age. My father garaged the car; I followed him around like the daddy’s girl I was.
There was something wrong with Doran. My father applied water on his nose and I hugged the giant that so often acted as my pony. In the next moment I am on the veranda crying, watching the veterinarian examining our doggie and giving him an injection. It is years later that I learn that it was not the injection that took Doran away from us, but canine distemper.
Again mess and muddle in my head
Changing my brother’s diaper - the only one I have ever changed in my life - must have happened when I was four, five years old. But did quarreling with my cousin, who did not want to pray for my sake, about the colorful building bricks happen before, or after that?
What about playing Old Mr. Bear is deep asleep? Was that the same year? Who were the children that run around the couch with us in my aunt’s room? Aeration caused by the tickle torture? Or the sad fate of a cock that died under my grandfather’s axe after it dared attack my as I played in the backyard?
So many things must have happened in between those glimpses. Many things I must have lost since that pacifier. Especially since it have been years since I last slept with my legs upwards.