Have you ever sat down and tried to think of your earliest memories? Not things your parents or siblings have told you about yourself, but what you yourself really, truly, actually remember. I have.
I remember walking into our kitchen, one shoe on, one shoe off. The tiles were black and white. Checkered. My mother lifted me up and sat me down on the edge of the counter.
I remember a song. The first song I remember hearing on the radio. Queen. “Another One Bites the Dust”.
I remember being awakened by the kisses of a new baby kitten. My dad always brought the best surprises.
Simple, sweet memories. That’s how it all began. One day I’d like to sit and write them all down in a book, just to remember those nearly innocent days. But how quickly it all dissolved.
Today my dad is gone and the pain is only subdued by the hope that one day I’ll see him again, God willing. Today my mother refuses to speak to me because men she’s never met have convinced her that I’m bad association. My comfort has long been music, but these days and times have changed me.
And so I’ll begin (when I begin) at the beginning. There has to be some sense in all of this mess. And I’m determined to find it.