This is actually quite vivid. One of the little memories I have from very early childhood. I am old enough to remember but young enough to still be in a crib. But I know that I can lower the bars by myself. [My mother was always horrified that I could get my fingers caught in the crib’s catch, but she was always horrified of all the dangers that surrounded me.] They’re easy to figure out once I observe my parents raising, lowering, and locking the crib’s bars into place several times a day since I was old enough to have this memory.
I had been sleeping, it’s early morning. I rise from sleep, to this memory. I look to my parents, both are in bed. My father in crutches for his leg. Even from this tender age of infancy, I held concern for my father’s health. I look to my mother, her head a riot of familiar curls. I’m looking to the ceiling fan, the shadows thrown by the rising sun. The quiet of the room, the snores of my father, and the chatter of the morning labors of the sparrows gently wake me. I was always a quiet child, and enjoy that time. Until my brother sneaks into the room, his small fingers worming their way into the bars of the crib, smiling to me adoringly as he talks to me. I can’t recall if he was speaking yet, but I am told that he was able to speak our children’s language to me. His noisy entrance is enough to alert my parents and I spring to standing before my mother’s dresser where I am entertained by my own reflection in the mirror. I can’t tell you what I thought I looked like. My mirrored image is a fuzzy television screen, even to my own memory. It wasn’t long until my mother picked me up and put me into bed with my father. Dusty smells of sleep, sweat, and my father welcomed me as he tickled me. I gave way to giggles and quietly raucous morning playtime. Distracting me long enough to allow my mother the space to wash and dress before we started our day. A day just like every other day, for many days to come.