I don't recall what my first childhood memory was, but I DO remember the most vivid one.
I was standing in the living room of our old home. Holding my brothers tightly under each arm. They were squirming and twisting, and shouting "Daddy!" as the paramedics took him down the stairs in a stretcher. They wanted to run over to him. I wanted to run over to him as well, but a very grown-up voice in my head told me that we'd only be in the way.
So I stood there. And held them. And let the paramedics take my daddy away.
I didn't know then, that it would be the last time I saw him alive. I didn't know then that he'd die on the way hospital and it would change our lives forever. I didn't know what a heart attack was. I don't know for sure that I'd do anything different, though I do sometimes daydream about running to him and touching his face for the last time.
I do know that whenever someone asks me anything about my childhood, that's the first memory that pops up. I know that it happened January 28, 1987, but that's only because I have a bookmark with his obituary on it. I know that I was 8 years old. And I know that even though it's been over 20 years ago, I sometimes still miss him, though there are many days I don't think about it at all.
Life is weird. Grief is even weirder.
