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This is What I Call It: The Memory Keeper

Born breach 27 hours after my mother started labor, I was welcomed as my parents’ first child. Their baby girl.

My mother and father were young. Twenty-one and twenty-two. I used to think that they were old, new parents. Now I know that they were green. Young and green.

Both of my parents worked full-time and very hard to provide for our little family. They did not have family that could help them keep an eye on me. It was just the three of us — for seven years.

I have seven memories from that time in my life.

The first memory is the one that involves me eating one of the dog’s biscuits. I remember wanting to try one because I figured it must taste like a cookie. It looked like a cookie. It tasted like cardboard.

The second memory is the one that involves me eating the entire jar of honey. In one sitting. I was hiding under the kitchen counter, out of sight, and I just could not stop myself.  To this day, my love affair with sweets continues.

The third memory is one that I still can’t figure out. I remember sitting crossed legged, in the middle of the living room. I was facing my mother. Sedentary in an armchair, her silhouette was all that I could see.  I could not see her face. I could feel her eyes, though. She sat there and stared at me without saying a word.

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Published inWriting