enchantedkiwii
The earliest memory I remember is water. Not my moms face, not my dads voice or my sisters touch. I was three or four. I was standing in the lake north of the small town in Oregon where I was born and raised; ankle-deep in the water, I was trying to sink floating leaves by weighing them down with stones. I remember the pink jumpsuit I was wearing very clearly. No matter where we went, I used to beg my mother to let me wear it. I think it was spring. The weather was warm but not humid. My father called out my name, wanting me to turn and look at the camera, but I didn't. That tiny snapshot he took that day is still hanging on our refrigerator. Yet, even my father was nowhere to be found. First my older sister left, then my father, and then many of my friends. Even those who remained in the town constantly talked about leaving. I was one of them, one of those who wanted to leave for years, who spoke of leaving, yet somehow never managed to go. Looking back now, I feel I spent the greater part of my life waiting. Waiting for things to begin, for things to change. Waiting for myself to change. Yet, it turns out change isn't as clamorous a thing as I had imagined; sometimes, it approaches silently. Without you even noticing.