Connecting a Memory


Its jus’ a fragment of memory, that’s all. So I have had to rely on what my parents told me after I brought it up to them one evening years ago.

Both say I wasn’t even two-years old yet, so they were astonished that I could recall even the smallest of detail. They had to tell me what it was I was remembering.

My God-father had bought a little red wagon for me and we were out front of the apartments that my folks rented in the little French town. It was a three-story, red-brick building with a large patio area.

The patio was finished with a set of three steps leading to a driveway. I was climbing on the wagon as my dad and God-father were talking.

In the small bit of memory I have regarding this I recall being picked up because I was crying. I was at the bottom of the steps with the wagon on top of me.

Dad told me that the wagon rolled backwards off the steps and I tumbled down with it. He said both he and my God-father rushed to pick me up.

The arms that lifted me were dressed in a light khaki-brown long sleeved shirt. Dad told me that was what my God-father was wearing as he was in his Air Force uniform.

What happened from there I don’t have any memory regarding. My parents said that I stopped crying after a while and wanted to continue playing with the wagon.

Such fragmented memories can be hard to figure out.

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