By: Youholdmenow
2015-02-24
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Summary:
Lauren depicts the first and last things in her life (Camren)
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My first memory as a child was of my father leaving. I did not understand it at the time, nor do I still to this day. I remember the screaming from downstairs, as my body shook with fear in the corner of my room. I did not know what was argued upon, but as a young child, I was sensitive to noise. I listened to my mother stomp her foot, angrily and loudly, against the wood tile of the hallway, adjacent to the living room, as a shatter rose from the same, small location. With that, the slam of the front door and screen came, and the rumbling of my father's car sounded, as it hastily made its way down the concrete driveway, never reappearing again.
My mother cried that night, unable to control her bottled-up emotions she had never been able to release from the endless fights, she had claimed, before my birth and after, but that was the first of what I remembered. My mother said I was still young, and I did not have to remember it all, but it played so lively in my mind, that I could not force it from my thoughts, even if I had tried. I remember the pads of my feet pattering down the stairs, and to where my mother had collapsed, unable to support her own body weight, from the weight of the situation itself. I wrapped my tiny arms around my mother, as much as possible, and her tears soaked into my onesie. We stayed in that position until dawn had arrived.
My first sibling was my brother. He was tiny, from what my mother had recalled from his birth, as he was born premature, coming to the world early by 3 weeks. His lungs had still not properly developed, from what the doctor had told my mother, and would have the odds against him. My mother said my father was not there for his birth, because he was "caught up on work", as he told her over the phone what night when in labor. He was not there for my birth either. My mother told me the nurses did not let him enter the corridor doors, into where all the laboring women were. He became my support, my rock, at the time when my mother could not. He understood my want of a better future, especially for our mother, even at such a young age. My mother was working, and we took care of each other. He would lay in bed with me, as we read aloud a children's story, the only one on our shelf and the only one my mother had bought because we could not afford such.
My first love was Tom. He was a child, of alike interests as mine, sharing the same homeroom as me in third grade. He was seated next to me, for the whole school year, and he seemed like a child of magic. He was the brightest of the class, though he always gave me that title, and was able to solve simple algebraic equations, which was impossible to our little minds at the time. Every teacher adored him and saw great things in him.
We held hands from under our oversized desks, as our legs swung, in unison, back and forth, the class being oblivious to these daily doings. He talks to me, with such light from his eyes, about the nerdiest of topics, like math and reading. He was not like the other boys, who screamed cooties when a girl was near his "bubble", or thought the coolest thing to talk about Max Rivera watching a rated R movie. He thought different from them, which was what intrigued my tiny mind, wanting the information he had possessed at such a young age. Sadly, he had transferred by the next year, one of the top gifted elementary schools accepting his enrollment.
My first kiss was when I was 13, it being with someone who I would later call "boyfriend". We sat outside of the school, on the playground, as his mother was late to pick us up. We were project partners, being assigned to each other, and my 13-year-old self could not have been happier. He was considered the cutest boy of grade, and every girl would have done anything to have been in my position. He asked me if he could, and squeaked a, yes, having nod my head rapidly. He leaned in a kissed me.
