Truth? I’ve never had first memories. Whenever I look back, a burst of them come to mind, but I don’t know if they’re in chronological order, and always, always, it’s one with my brothers. For the sake of this exercise though, I’ll share the three.
Memory 1: The Key
Maybe it was the fascination of seeing my parents turning it so easily. Any child would think, “Well, heck, I can do it do!”
So I did. I went into our room, and turned the key. What I did for the rest of the time, I don’t remember. Did I play with my mother’s lipsticks (according to her, I never did such a thing– what sort of baby girl was I?)
Whatever it was, I was interrupted by noises at the door. Someone turning the latch, expecting the door to swing open easily, just as it always did, except this time it isn’t. It took a few more rough slams and knocks before I understood that I wasn’t supposed to be where I was. Hoping to remedy this, I confidently walked over to the door to turn the key and open the door. But no matter how many times, it just wouldn’t open.
On the other side, a sizable group of hysterical adults gathered.
After a few hours, or maybe 5 minutes (it’s a mystery how bawling can throw time off), and hollering explanations, I managed to slide the key under the door.
The consequences that followed had me wishing I’d ignored that.