Childhood Memory
A Memory
My mother woke us and led us to the car. We took the pajamas we were wearing and nothing else. We went back to sleep on the way to Grandma and Grandpa's. We didn't realize we had just lost all our toys and clothes and books. My brother and I were too young and tired to realize that my mother had finally been beaten enough. She was near death but she got us safely to Grandma's, then she went to the hospital.
The next week, Grandpa drove us over in his station wagon to pick up some of our stuff. We were all silent for the 30-minute drive. Everything had already been said. Even my little brother sensed this was not time to jump around in the back seat or argue over how much of his seat was occupied by my hand. He sat quietly staring out the window. I watched my mother, her fingers lightly stroking the fresh bandage on her forehead as she stared through the floorboard.
Finally, we were turning on to our street. I stared ahead as we drove slowly through the neighborhood I had grown accustomed to, although we had lived there less than a year. I'm sure I saw the smoke first. I wasn't sure where it was coming from until we got closer. By this time, Grandpa saw it too. Thick black smoke was drifting up from our backyard. There were things floating up in the smoke. Scraps of paper, or cloth, or wood - it was hard to tell.
Grandpa pulled alongside the curb, near some boxes piled at the end of the driveway where we usually put our trash. He told my mom to wait in the car while he went to see what was going on. I knew what was going on. As we pulled up, I had a brief glance at the back yard. I saw the barrel where the fire was coming from. I saw my stepfather and his brother. I saw them throwing clothes into the fire.
My Grandpa disappeared around the house. I started looking at the boxes in the driveway. Most were closed, but I could see games sticking out of a couple, along with posters I'd had on the walls of my bedroom. One of the posters I recognized wasn't really a poster at all. I knew what it was because of the distinctive stains on the back and because it was smaller than my posters. It was a picture of my mom, my brother and me that we'd had taken sometime before she met John. It was during the time when it was just the three of us.
Sitting there, watching the smoke rise above the house, I remembered the day we had the picture taken. The three of us, dressed in matching white turtlenecks and blue jean jackets, climbed into the big yellow Bonneville my mother drove. First, we stopped by to see one of Mom's friends, mainly to show off a little. Once she heard we were going to get our picture taken, she ran in to get her camera. She wanted one for herself. The three of us posed, standing next to the Bonneville, smiling. Then we went to Olan Mills and on the way home we ate at McDonald's.
Grandpa got in and slammed the door, startling me, because I hadn't seen him coming.
"We'll come back another time," he said. "Today's not a good day."
My mother opened her door.
"Diana," my grandpa said, "Diana, close your door."
Mom didn't listen. She got out of the car, walked to the boxes, and grabbed that picture. She must have seen it, like I did, and maybe she remembered, like I did. My mother was rescuing that one memory and we were taking it with us.
My mother woke us and led us to the car. We took the pajamas we were wearing and nothing else. We went back to sleep on the way to Grandma and Grandpa's. We didn't realize we had just lost all our toys and clothes and books. My brother and I were too young and tired to realize that my mother had finally been beaten enough. She was near death but she got us safely to Grandma's, then she went to the hospital.
The next week, Grandpa drove us over in his station wagon to pick up some of our stuff. We were all silent for the 30-minute drive. Everything had already been said. Even my little brother sensed this was not time to jump around in the back seat or argue over how much of his seat was occupied by my hand. He sat quietly staring out the window. I watched my mother, her fingers lightly stroking the fresh bandage on her forehead as she stared through the floorboard.
Finally, we were turning on to our street. I stared ahead as we drove slowly through the neighborhood I had grown accustomed to, although we had lived there less than a year. I'm sure I saw the smoke first. I wasn't sure where it was coming from until we got closer. By this time, Grandpa saw it too. Thick black smoke was drifting up from our backyard. There were things floating up in the smoke. Scraps of paper, or cloth, or wood - it was hard to tell.
Grandpa pulled alongside the curb, near some boxes piled at the end of the driveway where we usually put our trash. He told my mom to wait in the car while he went to see what was going on. I knew what was going on. As we pulled up, I had a brief glance at the back yard. I saw the barrel where the fire was coming from. I saw my stepfather and his brother. I saw them throwing clothes into the fire.
My Grandpa disappeared around the house. I started looking at the boxes in the driveway. Most were closed, but I could see games sticking out of a couple, along with posters I'd had on the walls of my bedroom. One of the posters I recognized wasn't really a poster at all. I knew what it was because of the distinctive stains on the back and because it was smaller than my posters. It was a picture of my mom, my brother and me that we'd had taken sometime before she met John. It was during the time when it was just the three of us.
Sitting there, watching the smoke rise above the house, I remembered the day we had the picture taken. The three of us, dressed in matching white turtlenecks and blue jean jackets, climbed into the big yellow Bonneville my mother drove. First, we stopped by to see one of Mom's friends, mainly to show off a little. Once she heard we were going to get our picture taken, she ran in to get her camera. She wanted one for herself. The three of us posed, standing next to the Bonneville, smiling. Then we went to Olan Mills and on the way home we ate at McDonald's.
Grandpa got in and slammed the door, startling me, because I hadn't seen him coming.
"We'll come back another time," he said. "Today's not a good day."
My mother opened her door.
"Diana," my grandpa said, "Diana, close your door."
Mom didn't listen. She got out of the car, walked to the boxes, and grabbed that picture. She must have seen it, like I did, and maybe she remembered, like I did. My mother was rescuing that one memory and we were taking it with us.