I have a memory from my childhood that I am certain is mine, but my Mother will tell you it isn’t possible for me to have this memory. I suppose she is right, and it must have been a dream, but how can a dream stay with you for so long that it feels like a memory…?
I am 5 years old. I am sitting on my bed. I am also sitting on my hands. The patch quilt my mom made me covers my bed. I love this quilt. It is my favorite possession. My bedroom is the last room in the hallway of our trailer. My brother’s crib is across from me and I am watching it. He is in it and asleep. My bedroom door is open and I look to my left and down the hallway to see what my mom is doing. She is sitting on our couch, hunched over, long black hair covering her face. I know she is crying and I think I know why.
I look to my right, where the fourth wall of my bedroom is missing. My Dad sealed this part of the room off with a heavy, thick construction plastic. There is a corner that has fallen, but since it is summer, I am not worried about it. I can see the sky through this fallen corner of the plastic. It is blue. I can see part of a cloud as well. This makes me feel better and so I get an idea to make my Mom feel better too. I get up, pull the whole plastic cover down, then I sit back on my bed. I clasp my hands in my lap and I stare out into our yard and into the sky. I am so happy that I decided to take down the plastic.
I realize my Mom doesn’t notice what I’ve done so I call down the hallway to her. She doesn’t hear me, and she never notices that I took down the plastic for her.
