By: Youholdmenow
2015-04-08
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Summary:
Camila depicts the first and last things in her life (Camren)
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My first memory as a child, that I could fully recall was gentle, and heartwarming. I sat on my mother's lap, with a doll in my hand, (I had liked to think that the doll was the younger sister I did not have), as my mother combed her delicate fingers through my hair, which was quite short at the time. I would look up, from time to time, only to be greeted with her warm smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners like small cat whiskers. We watched television together, a cartoon I had quite enjoyed as a child, until we heard a harsh slam of the screen door, followed by the glass door sliding closed.
It startled me as a child, and I curled up against my mother's chest, until I heard my mother rock me slowly, as she confronted the person behind the loud, shrieking noise of the screen door. I turned away from my mother's chest, only to my greeted with a scruffy kiss on my cheek, who I instantly knew to belong to my father, as he apologized for the loud noise. He kissed my mother on the forehead, before whispering some unknown language to me. He sat with us, as we watched cartoons together, as a small family.
My first moment of anger was when my father could not come home for my fourth birthday. My mother was hanging the streamers, her body standing on one of our kitchen stools, which usually sat under the dining table, was at the corner of the room, her feet on it, and her arms reaching for the ceiling, when the call came. My mother, balancing herself, stepped off, and took her phone in her hand, and answered the caller. She sighed, and hung up, walking up to me, who sat on the couch, coloring the pictures in the book. She crouched, at eye level for me, and told me my father would not be able to come home for another week. He was caught at work, and could not get out of it.
I felt tears starting to brim against my eyes. I squeezed them shut, only to feel the tears slip, and glide slowly down my face, as I pushed my mother out of the way, gently, as I ran up to my bedroom. I closed the door, and ran to my bed, where I sunk my face in my pillow, the pink one covered in ponies, that my father had bought for me when I was two, and continued to weep into it. I felt my fists ball up, and slam back and forth against the top of the mattress, where many stuffed animals laid. Through all the crying and all the anger that would later turn into pain, my father did not come home for my birthday. .
My first funeral was for my grandmother. She was sick, as my mother told me, and she could no longer remember the faces that took care of her every day. She had spent her last days, months, and years in our home, always complimenting us as if we were foreign people and continued to forget our names. She had isolated herself from us, always staying in her room, only leaving when she needed the restroom, or for food. Then, it all stopped. She was not able to move herself, and was left, like a lifeless piece of flesh and bones, laying on her white satin bed sheets. We knew the moment of nonexistence was going, but we did not know it would come so soon.
My mother wept quietly on my father's shoulders, and my father silently stood there, watching the casket being lowered, trails of tears slowly running down his face. Just moments before, I was able to look at my grandmother, two weeks after death decided her time had to come to an end, and she looked beautiful. They had applied makeup to her wrinkled features, but was able to indeed to a fantastic job. And from looking at her, I knew that our paths have split, and hopefully, she will know she was buried beautiful.
My first occurrence of bullying was when I was ten, still in elementary school. There was a new girl in our class, and our teacher, believing I was the best student in the class, assigned her to seated right next to me. She strutted down to where her desk was located, from the front of the classroom, as boys admired her, and the girls absentmindedly started to stare, with jealousy and awe. She looked at me, from head to toe, and kissed her teeth loudly. I smiled at her, only for her to point out loudly about my crooked teeth. I did not quite smile the same after the encounter with her again for a long time.
