There is this one memory that I have from when I was about four.  Actually, I’m not quite sure you can even call it a memory.  Its more like a snapshot–its just a moment of my life.  The thing that I find interesting about this small snapshot, though, is that it holds absolutely no importance to me.  Its not something that I look back on in fondness or with hatred–I have no emotional attachment to this second in time and yet it keeps coming back to me.  Its almost like its haunting me–but this memory isn’t something I regret or anything–its not really capable of haunting, it just brings itself to the front of my mind and reminds me that it exists every once in a while.

This is the snapshot:

I am not more than four years old, but I can walk, and can be (for the most part) understood when I speak.  I’m standing at the top of the staircase in the first house we ever lived in, which was about two or three feet from the threshold to my baby brother’s room.  I’m poised to start descending the stairs.  In the background, my mom is changing my brother’s diaper, with my older sister standing dutifully by her side “helping” as much as a five-year-old can. For just a second, I turn back to my mom and my siblings, and then I turn back and go down the stairs.

Well, I don’t even actually remember going down the stairs, but I think that that was my intention.  This memory is only about a second long–it isn’t anything substantial or a important part of my life for anything, but because it keeps bringing itself to my attention, it must be some kind of important, so I thought I’d write it down.


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Filed under Memoir, vignette

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