In the beginning, I don’t remember. I don’t remember the beginning of my life, or when I actually starting have my own memories. I have no recollection of meeting my baby sister, although I know that I was sick with a fever on the day she was born. I know that a few months later, when my dad returned from a lengthy overseas trip, I was scared of his new beard. I know that because my parents told me, but I don’t remember.
Photo Credit: My dad
I do remember getting the chicken pox in kindergarten, and I remember sitting in the car while my mother ran into school to pick up a packet of get well wishes from my classmates. I remember floating in the soupy oatmeal bath that alleviated the itch, but only while I was submersed.
I remember leaving my elementary school in November of third grade. My old class sang This Land is Your Land every morning, and my new class was full of strangers.
In the beginning, I was falling head over heels in love. It was just like the movies and books, or I wanted it to be. It wasn’t, and that saddened me. Real relationships are hard, and when you are sixteen and seventeen and eighteen you just can’t put in the work required to make it work. Or at least I couldn’t. I remember the end.
In the beginning, I liked this guy enough. Head over heels hurt, so I walked carefully. We were nineteen, and we learned how to make it work together. We are still learning.
In the beginning, I was nauseated every morning. I threw up and I ate crackers that were supposed to help but didn’t. I remember the beginning of her life, and the beginning of his. They don’t remember, but I can tell them the story.
Parents remember the beginning. As parents remember less, children remember more. My parents are loyal readers of this blog, and each of them has told me that they often learn things about me that they didn’t know. I know that’s a positive thing, but I imagine it makes them a bit sad as well.
It makes me sad. Perhaps a better word would be wistful.
The older I grew, the less time I spent in my parents’ physical presence. My own children are the same; I know that is how it should be. In the beginning, I was the center of their world, and I knew every detail. Now their lives are so full of experiences that don’t include me, and I must rely on their willingness to share. I also rely on the well-established parental prerogative of checking their phones, but often that is much more information than I want to know.
In the beginning, my babies were born. For years, I was an integral part of all of their milestones, and every part in between. In the future, I will be more of a spectator.
I have thought about beginnings and ends for the past few years, as I begin to let go of my hearts. Instead of focusing on the endings, I try to focus on the beginnings, and embrace them for the fresh starts that they can be.
This is a Finish the Sentence Friday post, “In the future…” I really stretched this one, but I’m in a bit of a writing rut, so I consider any writing at all a win. Thanks to Jena and Cigdem of The Inky Path for their writing prompts – I pulled one out in desperation (“Beginning”) and I just wrote.
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