Distant memories

I've been thinking about my first memory. A couple of them, really. I've always said that my first memory is of me, laying in what I think was a bed in a hotel, in between my brothers, Darrell and Ira. I think that Ira was on my left, and Darrell was on my right. There was a big headboard behind us. It had beige material--maybe leather, maybe vinyl--with big buttons spaced evenly throughout. The headboard was shaped like a half-moon. I remember white sheets and a thin, yellow comforter.


I have no idea where we were at. My family didn't travel much most of my life, but for some reason, we were in a hotel. I was still young enough to drink from a bottle, but big enough to sleep out of a crib. I remember the bottle because one minute I was drinking from it, and the next I was dropping it behind the bed.


That's where the memory ends, with me dropping the bottle. I don't recall if I cried when it happened. I don't recall if one of my brothers got out from under the covers, crawled under the bed, and retrieved the discarded item. I don't even recall what I was drinking.


But the memory still lives within my mind. Clearly. The vision I just described is etched within my memory as if it happened yesterday, or last week, or last year. It's a strange memory that does not mean much to me, except that it is my first.


Another memory that continuously re-enters my thoughts is even more perplexing than my first. It's actually a pretty scary memory because of what happens in it.


When I was a kid, car seats where not the norm. I distinctly remember times when I was in my parent's car, without any harness or protection. It just wasn't something parents had to do. We were also allowed to sit in the front seat, long before we were 12 and long before weight requirements were the law.


This memory occurs in a car. More specifically, in my parent's orange, Chevy Nova. I was in the backseat, and while I wasn't in a car seat, I was in a booster seat of some sort. For some reason, we were parked on the side of the road. More specifically, we were on the corner of Algonquin Road and Golf Road, in front of what was once a K-Mart. The car must of been having some trouble because we were not moving.


I don't remember either of my brothers being in the backseat with me. I don't remember either of my parents being in the front. What I do remember is a man. More specifically, a bald man. A bald man dressed in long, flowing sheets, like a Hare Krishna. The man approached me through the open window. He looked at me and smiled. I don't remember being scared and I don't remember crying. The man kept looking at me and smiling. I remember looking toward the front seat for one of my parents and not seeing anyone familiar. Anywhere.


I remember the man reaching at me through the window, both of his hands coming at me toward my midsection.


And then nothing.


That's the end. Like the lights went out. Like an abrupt end to a movie. Like the scary part of a dream, just before your body shakes you awake.

It ends.

I have no idea what happened to the man.

I have no idea what happened to the bottle.

I have no idea.