Memory Lane

Posted: May 28th, 2013 | Author: | Filed under: Fiction | Tags: , , , | No Comments »

 

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It is at Clearwater Beach, Florida, on a sunny afternoon in the year of 1986. I am about eight months old. I don’t have too much hair on my pretty little head, just an amount equivalent to that of an old man, but my hair is not gray nor white with age; my hair is blonde and soft, fair like a little pixy devil. My eyes are blue and round like beautifully placed saucers in my small white head. I am an adorable child, a beautiful child. I am the daughter of my mother, who is also beautiful with big blue saucer eyes that sparkle and allure everyone. My mother has more than beautiful eyes; she has a bodacious figure, five feet nine, slim and curvy all at the same time, and beautiful ivory skin.

Today she is wearing and iridescent bathing suit of light pink and purples, one piece, that goes up high on the sides to expose her bare hips. Her hair, naturally straight and light to dark brown, is dyed a bit and wavy from a past perm, cut to just above her shoulders, the feathered type fashion of the 80s in the US. Yes she is gorgeous; no one doubts her daughter will likewise grow up to be beautiful just like her, but there are pains that come with beauty just as there are pains that come with ugliness. We are at the beach; the sun is shining, a truly lovely day. The waves are just right, the water is appropriately cool and fresh, seagulls are making their rounds swooping down here and there in teams; their sound can be heard and it adds to the atmosphere of sun, sand, wave, and seagull, a truly perfect day at the beach. My mother, grandparents, aunt, uncle and I are all there, enjoying a holiday together. Some other relatives are joining later as well. It isn’t certain if this is my first trip to the sea or not, but certainly this is my first memory of the sea, really my first memory of anything.

The first memory of a life, what a treasure to behold. The gatherers are scattered about, either in the hotel rooms, or out walking around somewhere exploring the nearby roads of the city. Only my grandmother, and her two daughters, and I are on the beach out playing in the sand and sun. They want to take me swimming, expose my little creature-like body to the great expanse of sea, dip my delicious little legs into Triton’s vast deep blue. My young mother, only seventeen years old, picks me, her progeny, up and holds me in her arms, walks me over to the bisque cusp of the sea and slowly wades in with me on her hip.

People always wonder what babies are thinking, but only the baby knows for sure, yet this is but a memory and memories tend to be skewed. Here is what I am thinking in my tiny head, “don’t drop me don’t drop me don’t drop me!” I am absolutely terrified beyond belief. I don’t trust my mother; all I can see is water underneath getting higher and higher, grabbing at my mother seeking security I cannot find. Security I am longing for and desperately scrambling for, I can not feel safe, thinking, “don’t drop me don’t drop me!” I have nothing but fear and anxiety….

…and this is my first memory. A snapshot was taken on this day of my mother holding me before the sea; it can be found in my home somewhere in some box hardly noticed, perhaps my family isn’t even sure where the photo is located, but it resides somewhere, in the place I call home. In the photo can seen my beautiful mother with a proud-looking smile on her face, and me, scared on her hip clinging to my mother with a nervous anxious grimacing face.

 ~

No one could have predicted in just a matter of two weeks, this mother and daughter are in a horrible car accident. The mother breaks a leg, suffers severe eye damage for which she would later undergo many surgeries to correct, brain damage…in the part of the brain that is responsible for personality, and experience a coma. The daughter breaks both her legs and is put into an almost- a- body cast all the way up to her chest and down to her little toes.

                                                    

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It is night time and my mother wants to go to a bar but my grandparents won’t babysit me, so I have to join; only my mom can’t take me in so I have to wait in the car. I am under five years old, of course, as I am in almost every story that involves my real mother that I can remember. I am in a parked car; I think it is winter because I remember I am wearing some kind of coat and blue jeans, little girl blue jeans that snap instead of buttoning at the top. It is either a car or a truck; I am not sure, but I just stay in the front either way, in the driver’s seat. It is getting late; my mother is taking a really long time; I am all alone and it is dark outside. I am crying, not a soft gentle cry but a loud painfully devastating kind of cry. If others were looking on from outside they would have been so alarmed by this sight of a little girl locked in a parked car balling her eyes out all alone. “Where is her mother”, they would ask and they would look at me thinking “oh my god that poor dear!” and surely call the police. I am not sure if anyone sees me or not, but I ball my eyes out just the same. My mother is taking so long that I need to urinate. Maybe that is why I am crying. I have to urinate but I cannot get out of the car. I know it is wrong to pee anywhere besides a toilet so I am in distress; I don’t know what to do. Finally it becomes too much for my little bladder to bear, and, still crying, I pee all over myself in the car. To bring back this memory is still heart- breaking to this day; I feel great pain in recalling it. It makes me want to cry, but I think, she was so young, merely a child herself. How can I expect her to have acted differently? She was who she was, wild, troubled no doubt, free-spirited, and rebellious; at least this is how I imagine her to have been. I am sure if she had lived and I brought this peeing-in-a-parked-car incident up to her, she would have felt only the kind of remorse a mother can feel, when she has not raised her child the best that she possibly could have.



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