First Memories

Knocks on the door of childhood memories, stood a lady and a boy.

Wrapped in shadows of motherly legs, I hide behind where it is safe.

Her leg a shield to the world outdoor; my eyes wander to explore.

Strangers to me, I knew neither one. He stands near as would a son.

Kiss to my head, comforts of home; standing under wings of undying love.

I remember he looks pretty tough. Scuffs embrace the side of his face.

Slingshot relaxing, while hitching a ride; in the comfort of a half ripped pocket.

Clear to see his weapon to be, disclosed as a result of his bare chest.

I cannot say, intimidation free, as he did look a little rough.

Might have been three years older than me, and he used those years well enough.

Dirt on his face, matted blond hair, with just a little bit of a scruff.

Definitely bigger, much older I figured, could not have been any younger than five.

Gary, the kid from the trailer park, who I eventually grew to recognize.

Safety in a place that I call home, anywhere with ones I love.

Trailer park memories around Christmas times.

Funny how even memories smell a hint of pine.

If memory serves well, my father presents a train set.

Now this set appears to be of quality, not manufactured plastic.

Sturdy steel significance, made with pride. Spectacular moments, only two years alive.

What stands out the most in memories “toddleresque,”

The magic I witness my father does next.

Too many titles for the greatest man alive. Dad and pops, great honor amid

many other considerations, including Magician. Hero, Mentor, and forever the list.

The greatest is “father,” I came up with.

Prodigiously simple, gifted and wise; in the father’s image, love free from disguise.

My identity mold, a cast to my rise. Foundations to character, my reason for life.

What pride rendered, when witness son’s rise.

There are more to fathers than their superpowers, physical feats; up midnight hours.

The substance of the man contained within, foundations which everything attaches.

However, in this particular memory, two years completed in my life.

Aftertaste of tin can Christmas cookies disseminating from my breath.

With the skepticism of a child, on a brisk white Christmas morning,

I saw my father create fire in the most mysterious way.

Although, everything available, he chose the kitchen sink.

Running faucet, placed under; filled it to the brink.

Witness water flowing into this model’s mold.

Two year old imaginations, came flames from the untold.

Imagine what I figured. What I saw next, rendered speechless.

Not that speech was even developed at this point in my life.

Fire from water, was the surprise. Images of steam has never hit my eyes.

He turned the car over and smoke started coming from its stack.

Youthful inexperience influence what eyes can see, recognize and process; just shy of fantasy.

I still remember great wonders I felt.

First memories, first moments, rehearsed and rehashed.

Some more lucid than others, some mere fragments flashed.

Mended by mind, fill in the gaps; I was young, maybe two or three at max.

Time moves on, retention challenged; earlier times harder to receive.

Memories return to the house I call home, where my father retains his kingdom.

A landmark time in early memories; age three when we moved out of the trailer and into the house.

Memories whisper vague images and thoughts, most I will remember the rest of my life.

If I remember anything in the trailer, it must surely be, I was barely a toddler, maybe just three.