9 of 83

Write now Article Tools

A Memoir of Innocence
D.E. Kaudil

I walk with my family of five, through the long commercial corridors consisting of the hustle and bustle of many people, accompanied only by their portable possessions; tightly wrapped in hardened plastic boxes with handles. It is not unlike what must happen under the ground as ants move their fragments of a potato chip with slight struggle, as they take the pieces with them wherever it is they may go.
I sit on the ledge made of air vents, seemingly attached to the bottom of the window that slants toward the outside, as I tilt my head to see the higher. Leaning on it with my face, I can see the ground almost directly below where I am perched, again reminiscent of the anthill. With more than they seem to be able to carry at once, the workers toss the handled boxes into the nest, lacking any concern for what might be inside them.

My father points outside at the airplane, with the big red stripe horizontally painted across the portal-like windows. A bright star-like glare of the morning sun stares back at me from the metal trim of the large round nose. As I watch, an accordion-like caterpillar reaches out slowly to kiss it on the side of its face. Why is my father's facial expression one of delight? Is he smiling about the excitement that I should be in display of? Does he envy the adventure that is to follow me living vicariously through his little boy?
My mother seems saddened by something; a hug from my father of reassurance seems to have made her eyes shinier than they were a moment ago. One day last week, she screamed at daddy, as she picked up the porcelain banana from the ceramic fruit bowl decorating the coffee table; throwing it at the furthest wall. It broke into halves, as the sheen of her eyes became streams that ran down her face. I had supposed that she loved that decoration until that moment. Now, she carries my infantile sister, of 3 months, as she takes the hand of my other female sibling, of 2 years, stepping into the jetway. The temporary tunnel leads to a door, resembling that of a safe from the Gunsmoke series on television the masked men with their bad guy' guns holding people by ransom as they wait for the thick door to be opened; but this safe has already been opened, all to be welcomed inside. As I walk up the gentle slope semi-sideways, I keep glancing back to see my father still standing there where the rest of us began; his hands in his pockets; another indication that he is

• 1
• 2
• next page >>

Add your voice

Know something about Memoirs: Early childhood memories?
We want to hear your view. Write now!