My First Memory

Dad was on the other side of the kitchen table with his heart patterned coffee-mug, singing a tune to me that always gave me a rush of laughter. My mind never entirely made connections with the sounds coming from his mouth, and he knew that. But all I knew was that I wanted to hear it until the day came to a shy ending.

Mom was mom, and in her arms, I felt the safest and the happiest. As I was sitting in my high chair, she grabbed me and pulled me from my side up slowly towards her chest. My bare feet were dangling from below, and as she opened the window in the kitchen, I felt a breeze passing through my toes, escalating towards my pink cheeks and through my hair. The front doors to the backyard opened and closed as you pleased if you were a big person. I remember my face getting hot and teary when I couldn't go through them when I wanted. And this time, she could tell that I was anticipating her carrying me through them and into the big, green world that everyone called the backyard. Mom opened them, and I remember hearing myself inside, my one and a half-year-old brain communicating with itself in some way that only babies could understand—and all I knew was this day was going to be great. The sun was at its highest peak, and the room didn't need any extra light. It was hot outside. I was ready to enjoy that big bright thing that hung in the sky that I always thought that my parents put up there.

Mom put me down and my little feet pattered across the patio where dad always sat. My pink ball was sitting askew from the bushes, so I crawled over to it, each abrasion of the concrete making its hours-worth of permanence of little indents into my fat knees.

I patted the ball one good time with my hand to bring it closer. The grass was cold in the shade, but I didn't care. Possessing the brand new eyes of a baby, I was amazed at the ball's brightness in the sun. There was something about how the color of the ball reflected against the light that gave me this magical feeling when I looked at it. It reminded me of the smell of maw-maw's bubble gum when she came over, and how the ball always had a similar color when she put a piece in her mouth. The color of this ball gave me so much mental energy. I was fascinated.

Mom walked across the yard and knelt down. She smiled and moved her hands in a gesture that waved towards herself. I didn't know what this meant. A sharp "AH" was all I could remember saying. Her sounds were unclear to me, and her waving hands must've indicated that she wanted me to advance in her direction. So, I packed the ball into my short arms and advanced towards her.

Mom took the ball! I couldn't believe this. I was outraged. All the effort I made to stand up and walk to her just to take my damn ball was unfathomable. I stomped, and I cried.

The ball suddenly flew from her hands, and it was back in my direction. What could this possibly mean? Do I just push the ball as she did?

I copied her motions, and for sure, that's what I was supposed to do. Mom patted my head, and papa went inside for coffee. I found joy in this activity with mom.

We went back and forth like this for a while, and I couldn't believe how happy I was.

I wanted to throw the ball more. I heard mom say, "Smoke break," which was a term that I became familiar with at an early age. I knew what it meant—it meant there was no more room for play time for a while. I understood that this was an unstoppable process. Mom gave me the ball, patted my head, and dad came out with more coffee. The sky turned to a purple hue as if to be some ever-changing, entity-like element of the earth—just one other part of my new world at which I could never stop staring.