Memorable
In The Beginning
One of my favorite memories comes from my early childhood. Many details have been lost in the haze that creates my memories until I was 8. It could have been any hot day in June, or August, or October, for that matter, in San Diego. I could have been 5, or 7; my tanned sticklike limbs were the same at either age, just like my blondish hair blowing into my eyes.
Our house wasn't huge, but I had my own room painted in yellow and decorated with stars and planets. I remember the hallway of our loft, with its cupboards full of extra blankets and spare washcloths. I always thought it smelled fresh and clean, like the crisp white sheets in laundry detergent commercials. In reality, it probably smelled of dog and mothballs and corners that didn't get light.
But this memory takes place in the backyard, a small expanse of of cracked stone and weeds looking into a canyon through a chainlink fence. On our side of the fence bloomed several rosebushes and a stunted lemon bush that produced pounds of sour yellow fruit every summer. I would sit on the hot rocks for an afternoon at a time, watching the ants crawl up and down the roses, wondering why they didn't get poked as I often did when reaching for one of the red flowers.
On a cloudless, brilliant day, I sat on the ground outside, watching the world go by in all directions. The sky was clear, crystal, sapphire blue, just exactly like the ocean crashing on the beach a few miles away. I saw something. My mom came out with me and we stood barefoot on the sun-warmed rocks. As we watched, we saw butterflies. The annual migration of the monarch butterflies happened to fall right over our house. Hundreds and thousands of bright, bold, fluttering butterflies streamed over our heads. I was in awe of the jeweled insects, their orange and black wings so striking against the perfect summer sky. It was like a river of color
and life and happiness. Now I use this memory to guide me through cold dark days of
Michigan's winter. I laugh at the butterflies with their clean, clear, pretty patterns, guided by
instinct and nature. And I cry for me, for my young, talkative, happy, innocent self.
Our house wasn't huge, but I had my own room painted in yellow and decorated with stars and planets. I remember the hallway of our loft, with its cupboards full of extra blankets and spare washcloths. I always thought it smelled fresh and clean, like the crisp white sheets in laundry detergent commercials. In reality, it probably smelled of dog and mothballs and corners that didn't get light.
But this memory takes place in the backyard, a small expanse of of cracked stone and weeds looking into a canyon through a chainlink fence. On our side of the fence bloomed several rosebushes and a stunted lemon bush that produced pounds of sour yellow fruit every summer. I would sit on the hot rocks for an afternoon at a time, watching the ants crawl up and down the roses, wondering why they didn't get poked as I often did when reaching for one of the red flowers.
On a cloudless, brilliant day, I sat on the ground outside, watching the world go by in all directions. The sky was clear, crystal, sapphire blue, just exactly like the ocean crashing on the beach a few miles away. I saw something. My mom came out with me and we stood barefoot on the sun-warmed rocks. As we watched, we saw butterflies. The annual migration of the monarch butterflies happened to fall right over our house. Hundreds and thousands of bright, bold, fluttering butterflies streamed over our heads. I was in awe of the jeweled insects, their orange and black wings so striking against the perfect summer sky. It was like a river of color
and life and happiness. Now I use this memory to guide me through cold dark days of
Michigan's winter. I laugh at the butterflies with their clean, clear, pretty patterns, guided by
instinct and nature. And I cry for me, for my young, talkative, happy, innocent self.