I want to remember and not forget my first memory in life. Sunny day, small footsteps side by side with the slow strides of my mother as we walked to playschool. The place was near our home, it was more a nursery than a school. Children frolicked, sang songs, and ate snacks together.
As I look back, it might be the act of walking that has engraved an indelible mark upon my memory and my heart. For while on our way, I remember trying to catch up with Mother’s pace.
I don’t remember what I was thinking then. From this earliest memory of childhood, I cannot remember mother’s words, only my hand in her hand as we tread the dusty and uphill path from our house to the brown, unpainted shack with a rusty roof, but its windows had curtains. If you ask me how I felt, though, I can tell you. I felt loved. I felt secure.
My earliest memory is couched on a sunny day. I love that I still seem to feel the warmth of her hand and the sun on my skin. And the cool breeze in that mountain region, yeah — bliss. I thank God for being entrusted with this memory.