I Remember...

I remember the color of the grass on the day I found out my mother wasn’t returning home. Molly Barnes, the 10-year-old neighbor and big sister of Jackson the Terrible, informed me that Mom had been in a car accident. At age 3, my world crumbled. She further went on to tell me that I would be living with them from then on. I’m sure it was funny when my mom returned from her shopping trip an hour later. I’m sure that I broke into tears and hugged her legs mercilessly as my fears were relieved, but I don’t remember that part. I just remember the color of the grass and the feeling of my life deteriorating before my eyes.

I remember the taste of powdered sugar donuts on a Sunday morning. My dad and I would go camping with other fathers and daughters a few times a year, and I could never sleep well in a tent. I would be up before the sunrise, building the fire for the day and munching on mini donuts before I had to worry about sharing them with the other girls. I remember the feeling of that moist, sticky powder between my lips as I collected twigs and balled up leftover newspapers so that when everyone else rose, they would compliment my fire-building skills.

I remember the feeling of guilt then I realized what I had done. My brother had, for his 18th birthday, received a tobacco pipe from a group of friends. I, the morally indignant younger sister, could not imagine that Kyle would put his health at risk in such a disgusting manner. So I took the pipe and placed it as the top of his white bathroom trashcan, intending for him to see it and ideally rethink his decision to smoke based on my protesting action. I felt sure of myself in that decision and forgot about it moments after. Two days later, when Kyle was on a mad search for his precious pipe, I remembered my gesture. Had he really not seen it in the trash? I remember paying to replace it, but even more I remember that sinking feeling of guilt once I could deny my actions no longer.

I remember the cool feeling of rock beneath my fingers when I became aware that my body was not built to allow me to do everything I wanted. I was rock climbing with my friend Amanda and our dads. She was skinnier, shorter, more flexible, and more graceful than I. She scrambled up the face of the rock while I looked on and eagerly awaited my turn to do the same. Yet when my harness was securely attached to the tightly woven rope and I had obtained a few cursory footholds low on the wall, I came to find that it was not as easy as Amanda had made it look. The seconds turned to minutes as I struggled upward, and I became frustrated. Never before had I felt physically incapable of anything. Yet now I remember the cold feeling of disappointment as Amanda’s dad lightheartedly hassled me from ten feet below my toes.