I’m going to pull some things from a few writing challenges and post them throughout April. Today’s is my earliest memory.

I was two years old when my dad took me to see a house in our neighborhood that was on fire. My uncle was there with my cousin, who is just a few weeks older than me, but I don’t really remember them being there. I was told they were though. What I remember is staring, mesmerized by the fire. I was too young to understand the tragedy of it. I just thought the flames were amazing and beautiful. I know there was probably so much more that went on. My memory is only of flames though, and my dad holding me. I still love to stare at fire. But now I know it is only beautiful when it’s contained in a safe place. Otherwise, it can be destruction and tragedy.

The only other memory I have from that far back was when my cousin, the one I mentioned in the fire memory, bit off the nose of my plush Winnie The Pooh. Seeing that happen was apparently traumatic enough to my toddler age brain that it stuck.