Saturday, March 7, 2015
My first memory is from when I was four years old and involves my mother. I have not stopped thinking of it since she became so very ill in late January.
I was in a doctor's office, sitting on the metal examining table and looking down at my feet. I was wearing shiny white shoes, slightly scuffed, with a buckle on the side and white ankle socks that folded over, with lace on the bottom edge. I kept swinging my shoes back and forth, back and forth, and my nose stung from the smell of astringent.
I heard my mother's voice say, "My daughter is very brave. She never cries when she gets her shots."
I didn't know what "brave" meant or "shots," but I knew what crying meant, so I puzzled out that "shots" were "bad" and would make me want to cry. So I wouldn't, because Mommy was proud of me for not crying.
Sorry, Mom. I guess I'm not that brave after all.
