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A propos of nothing in particular

My earliest memory:

I'm sitting on the cool hard floor in a ray of sunlight, the smell of wet cement all around. A man's brown shoe and blue trouser leg, both liberally besplattered, step into my field of vision while a hand reaches down to pass me a slice of white bread. I reach up to meet it. I know this hand: it is my father's.

My mother once helped me work out how old this memory is. From the description of certain details, such as the shiny black tiles I can almost see in the left hand corner, she could deduce that it must date back to the spring of 1964, when my dad was doing up the house we moved into after we left my grandmother's that summer; and more often than not during that time, minding me. I must have been between 18-20 months old at the time.

I always liked my father's hands. They were very elegant (if such can be said of a man's hands), and strong, with long, slender fingers. My own are a lot like his, though obviously smaller.


( 6 Speak Like A Child — Shout To The Top )
Apr. 7th, 2010 04:56 pm (UTC)
What a lovely memory to have.
Apr. 8th, 2010 02:19 pm (UTC)
It's a very happy memory, though everytime it pops up I'm amazed that such a mundane event could have left such a lasting and vivid impression.
Apr. 7th, 2010 05:40 pm (UTC)
It's lovely.
Apr. 8th, 2010 02:26 pm (UTC)
It's magical. I don't know why my brain decided to freeze-frame that particular scene, but I'm glad it did. Especially since, for a long time after that, it went blank.
Apr. 7th, 2010 08:10 pm (UTC)
That is a beautiful memory.
Apr. 8th, 2010 02:31 pm (UTC)
Memory is a funny thing; most of the time, we choose what to remember. This one I like though, because as far as I know, it was accidental, without any conscious decision on my part to keep it.
( 6 Speak Like A Child — Shout To The Top )
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