© 2009 by David Wainland
Here it begins, with my life unfolding on paper. When I think about it, the past I mean, large pieces are shrouded in a mental fog, lost or hidden somewhere in the back of my mind. .
How do I go about finding those missing pieces? Where are the little boy memories? I know some of the stories, told to me or remembered, but the emotions, the genuine feelings, the inner reflections, how do I drag them out? They are all lost to me.
I can call up Little David on a moments notice. He always responds, still, he does not react.
“I’m here,” he says, “What is it your want to remember?”
“What it was like to be six, eight or even ten?” I echo back.
“We played in the streets a lot, fun games”
“That’s not what I am reaching for. For instance, take the time your brother was born, how did it make you feel?”
“Happy, I guess, mommy wanted me to be happy.”
“If you were happy with a brother five years younger, why did you spend years picking on him?”
“I guess that’s what older brothers do.”
“Not enough,” I press, “Why were you angry? I remember being angry.”
“He crowded my room.”
“Still not enough, I remember being sad. Why was I sad?”
“They didn’t love me as much after he came home. OK, it is that what you want?”
“Yeah, some, it’s coming back, but it hurts. I knew they loved me…sometimes.”
“What else do you want to know?”
The question hangs in the air for a minute.
“What kind of games did we play?”