One thing that I've noticed is that I've had a really hard time writing lately. I sit down and am overwhelmed by a flood of thoughts. Last night I layed in bed thinking about what I might write for the prompt...I was thinking about this memory and it led to one thing and then another and another and another. It brought me to the things that I'm trying to make sense of these days and to the endless threads that tie me to my past. These days, my writing feels muddled. But no matter...the memory itself still shines clearly.
My earliest memory is of me sitting on my yellow plastic potty chair in my yellow room. The room was filled with sunlight and my dad was sitting in front of me, reading to me. In my mind, it is an image that could just as easily be a photograph I once saw. Maybe it isn't a memory at all. It seems like an awfully early age to have a memory of. How old was I? Maybe 2? But I do, indeed, believe that it is a memory. And, to be quite honest, it is one of my favorites. After that it gets more complicated--and there isn't quite as much sunshine involved.
And even though I don't remember my parents ever reading to us, except for that one memory...I attribute my love of words to that moment--although I'm sure it runs much deeper than that. In my mind, it is where my existance starts.
But there isn't much to say about this tiny snapshot of memory (without going off on a zillion tangents)...because, after all, that is all it is: a tiny glimpse into an innocent world. I loved my dad and my room and the sun and words. But what I love most about that memory is the sense of comfort and safety I felt--my world contained in that little moment.
Sometimes I wonder if it's possible to ever again experience that feeling so completely.