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Lo primero que recuerdo es una imagen mia con mi abuelo , sentado en mi cama y leyendome un cuento antes de acostarme, a partir de ahi, casi casi puedo recordar cada periodo de mi vida. Mas o menos unos cuatro o cinco años.
Era una habitacion empapelada con ese tipo de papel que se llevaba antes , en colores amarillentos y dibujos geometricos. Una habitacion con una ventana que daba a un patio interior y dos camas. La mia estaba pegada a una pared y mi abuelo estaba sentado en mi cama contandome un cuento por la noche antes de irme a dormir.
The sun is shining through the Lounge window; it must be 12 o’clock as the light is so bright it nearly hurts. I stand in that very lit and defined window perimeter in total ecstasy, surrounded by millions of dust particles flowing and dancing in the sunbeams. The golden rain flows in slow motion around me and I somehow know that this torrent of microscopic gold nuggets is a secret treasure, a key plug in, that I must silently download and absorb through my skin.
After more than two weeks of thinking, I thing that my first image that anchored into my mind was an incident that happened in my first day in school when I was 6 years old. I was in the schoolyard running for a reason that I couldn’t remember. Suddenly, I fall on the schoolyard, which was made of asphalt and its color was black and lined with other colors like yellow and red. I remember that half of the building was light green and other half was darker horizontally. I remember that the image was the falling part. Most of my sight went to the ground and the rest went to the building. I believe there were some small trees near that building and the sky was blue.
One of my earliest childhood memories is of being whisked up into the arms of an older brother and taken outside into the backyard of the family home where we would sit atop the timber picnic style outdoor table and chat about anything. It didn’t matter what the topic was. Maybe my brother would point to some birds flying overhead, or we would laugh at the antics of the pet dog, or even look for Care Bears in the clouds. It didn’t matter. It was a distraction you see and I think even as a four or five year old I knew it, but it was easier just to pretend. Somewhere inside the house, usually in the kitchen or front living room, my mother would be on the floor, hysterical and unwilling or unable to pick herself up. My father and maybe another brother or two would take an arm or shoulder each, in an attempt to lift her up and escort her to her bedroom.
Somehow, someone must have been delegated the responsibility of removing me from the scene. Considering I was seven to ten years or so younger than all my four brothers, I imagine they were accustomed to the drama but wanted to shield me from it. My memories of these instances present in quick, sharp snapshots, like the clicking frames of a camera; and usually at angles that just allow for a glimpse around the corner of the dining room wall or behind a kitchen bench, as I looked back over the shoulder of whoever was carrying me towards the back door. It was confusing and scary, but easier not to ask questions and seek out those Care Bears in the clouds instead.
I am two years old and am sitting on the shiny wooden floor wearing a soft yellow dress. My legs are stretched out before me as I watch my unaware father sitting near the open window. The white shear curtains desperately try to touch him but he is unaware of them as well. The sunlight has succeeded in wrapping itself around him but all he can see are his big shiny shoes. He is polishing them with such love, such focus. The big shiny boat shoes that will faerie him far, far away…
Bed
