July, and the sun is lowering
will soon reach the treetops
on the other side of the road.
The air is lukewarm and soft against my skin,
one year old and a half, I must have been,
when sitting there, on my mother’s arm.
Her dress is covered with light gray flowers
on windy crêpe de Chine,
with ruffles down her bosom,
her neckline and her shoulders
I always loved that dress
and used to go into her closet,
just to feel the texture in my hands.
Suddenly I pull out one of her breasts
from under the light gray flowerbed,
and drink the milk she still can offer.
Deep gulps, and then I wipe my mouth
with the back of my hand
A warm and happy laugh.
And the moment is caught for ever.
This is a memory of my own, but placed in time with the help of some facts and logic. Mom said she had milk for me until I was two, so just a simple counting and the summer made this true.
Sometimes I wonder, why one remembers one event and not the other, especially when originated a very long time ago. I think those which one still carries, must have been those very special. Perhaps out of the ordinary…
Or maybe not… maybe it can also be what is repeated a lot…
This one is a very early memory, but perhaps not the oldest one. Though probably the most significant one. The ones prior to this are only as I’m standing in my cot. First my eyes are under the upper edge, me glancing between the laths. Later I had grown a bit, my eyes at the same height as the upper edge. I remember standing on my toes to look over, or having to bend down a bit. Then came a time I didn’t have to stand on my toes any longer.
The door between the bedroom and the hallway was always a little bit ajar.
I wonder how much time I spent in that bed when I was little. I can’t seem to remember anything else from that time, long ago…
Painting: Surreal digital paintings, Marcel Caram