"Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing."
--Benjamin Franklin
Friday, June 28, 2019
First Memory
My earliest memory is one of morning. There is light in the room. It streams in from windows somewhere to my left. I stand in my crib, hands on the bars. I am alone, but not anxious. I wait. And sure enough, my mother enters the room, her nightdress billowing about her like scintillating aura. She lifts both hands to me, palms to the ceiling, and her eyes crease with her smile. My mother carries me across the hall to her bedroom, where my parents’ futons checker the floor. My father joins us, yet in his pajama pants. He indicates the window air conditioner unit with a wry expression, “We blew a fuse”. I do not understand the words, but they imprint in my memory. I am not concerned. In fact, I have no concerns at all. It is the beginning of summer, 1990. I am not yet one year old.
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