The earliest memory I have of myself is one that, to anyone else, seems pointless to hold on to. A waste of memory space, so I've heard. But, I don't know...I cherish it too much.
You see, the memory is simple.
It's of me, of course, and I am in the bathtub. I'm a baby, at least six or seven months old. I'm laying down on a seat designed for bathing babies.
My mom is holding me, one hand behind my neck, cradling my head, the other has a sponge. I am looking up at her. She has her hair back in a ponytail, with her bangs falling loosley in front of her face. Brown framed glasses cover her eyes. She's wearing an old tshirt with orange lettering, and grey shorts. And she's smiling.
I think I smile, or laugh, back at her. I hope I do.
And that's it. My earliest and clearest memory I have to hold. I think of it at times when I need some reassurance, or when I'm feeling a tad bit down. Sometimes it comes to mind involuntary.
Back then, my mom loved us, my siblings and I. She loves us now, don't get me wrong, but back then, it was different. She was happier and expressed more emotions and feelings with us.
Maybe it's the fact that we're older, or the years have gotten to her and she's tired, but she doesn't show herself like she used to. We don't feel much these days from her, and maybe it's sad, or maybe it's selfish even.
But it's our life that we have, and being the oldest girl in the family, apparently I was given the role of "mom" once I hit a certain age of maturity.
And so, I understand, I get tired at times too. And I revert back to that memory, when my mom was mom, and when I was her kid.
And then I just continue.
About the Creator
Isabelle
A 19 year old hidden in the dull, unpopular suburbs of LA, trying to get by.
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