Covered with Snow

I was born in January in a climate quite conducive to snow, although none had fallen that day or for many days before. Two weeks later, with the ground a dirty tundra of ice and mud, my mother wrapped me snuggly and held me close to her as the plane lifted sharply into the air. I, of course, have no memories of any of this.

I remember the blues and greens of the Pacific Ocean, the deep browns of volcanoes that stood for show, and the smells of Luaus. I smile thinking about the green bikini I couldn't bear to be without and the little Devil costume I wore to collect the first sweets of my life. But these are not my memories, they are pictures thrown into a shoe box which illicit the memories of others. Their details that have jarred themselves in tiny crevices of my brain matter.

No, my first memory, the one I can irrevocably lay claim to as mine and mine alone, brings goosebumps to my skin and causes my brain to shudder and my heart to skip a beat. My feet begin to feel cold and I shiver. It tells a story of who I was and whom I continue to be.

That same bundle of joy returned to that frozen land she had left four years prior. Having a voice now, one that communicated more clearly her ideas and desires, she refused the advice of her mother. Awakened from her nap by the stopping of the car, she reached for the handle and leaped toward her new life. She found a snowbank, still clean and white. It was a shock to her bear skin, the little sundress barely covering her.

*** Daily Writing Practice ***