I remember yesterday like it was a time before anything really happened. A moment caught in a veil. I see him fondly, ugliness and regret erased like rain under a desert sun. Someone, usually my mother, jolts me awake and nothing seems real again; that part of my life has vanished. I’m left only with reality. Memory is funny like that. It toys with you. I wish I knew better, but I always spiral back to memory.
Maybe that’s why I’ve dreaded this trek to my room. There’s a finality to it. A goodbye to a childhood with lots of good and some bad memories that will culminate into who knows what. Also, it means going through old stuff and remembering dad. So that sucks.
Staring for a moment, I quickly scribble “Basement,” just in case. As I go through the box, I notice a pig with dull black eyes. I pick her up from the rubble and sit back on my bed.
I got her on a trip to the toy store years ago.
“Get anything girls, my treat!”
Leah happily sauntered off to the Barbie section, a slight bounce in her step. I wandered through the aisles, mindlessly peering at my options — hoping something would jump out at me. In the corner of my eye, I spotted the pig. Just a simple toy, nothing that could label me as childish. I walked up to Dad, handing him the pig.
I move away from my bed, pulling the sheets off as I go.They should fit on my new bed. The bare mattress gleams before me, the most unnatural sight I’ve ever seen.
I shake my head to stop the guilt. The guilt that I was a bad daughter; I didn’t side with him enough. I’m grateful that he gave me his love of books. I miss when I read about princesses and adventures. I used to go to the basement and explain the plots to him — incoherently, I assume. It didn’t matter though. He usually played along, offering his own insights and ideas. Sometimes, he even asked if he could read it after. That always made me the happiest. I got to teach him.
I consider going back for the M&M one, but I have to admit, Oreo is the best.
I know my mom is looking for me, but I don’t care. She’s probably not frantic — yet. I let the straight pathways and staircases lead me up and down.
I clutch to another memory. I am seven years old. My dad and I in the car late at night, picking at the end of a McDonald’s fries packet and singing along to the Eagles.