Baby’s First Steps
The next set of memories are from the period of time when I was around several months old. By that time, I knew certain words to verbalize my emotions, but not many, I don’t suppose.
These are good memories.
It’s nice to have good memories.
I remember . . .
. . . the house we lived in before the trailer house. This house had a large kitchen that led into the backyard, and had yellow-and-white checkered curtains that framed the window above the sink. I loved looking at those curtains, and any time my mother washed dishes with me on her hip, I’d reach for those curtains. (Yellow is still one of my favorite colors. It represents a happy time for me.)
. . . bouncing on my mother’s hip as she scrubbed dishes at the sink, and grabbing for the iridescence bubbles that would sometimes rise, blinking with a startled laugh when they popped.
. . . bouncing on my mother’s hip as she stirred a pot on the stove, jerking away when she slapped my hand when I reached for the wooden spoon, and jouncing back, holding to her arm for purchase, as she adjusted her hip to keep me a safer distance from the stove.
I remember . . .
. . . the yellow Formica-topped dining table in the kitchen. This was the happy memory of the table. The bad memories of the table came later, when I was older. But in this memory, I used to stand underneath that table, holding on to the cool metal legs for support, and run my hands up and down its tapered length. It was fascinating to me that my hands couldn’t reach all the way around the leg towards the top of the table, but as I ran my…
Read the rest: Snapshot #2: A Foundation of Lies
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