Twirling on a Stool
The night they took my father away
The night they took my father away is ingrained in my memory, but I am an unreliable narrator. How could I remember anything if I were just two years old? Are my memories my own or memories of what I was told?
What I remember, or imagine remembering, happened in the middle of the night. Loud voices, doors opened and closed. I don’t remember any conversation, but what I do remember is a big brown security seal placed on one of the doors. Whatever they did not take away along with my father, they placed it in this room and sealed it.
My next memory is of a piano stool in the room that was unsealed by then. It was black and see myself twirling on it. This stool was left over from a black piano that was taken away alongside my father.
My childhood memories are unreliable. They have no colors, smells, or taste. They are disembodied as if I am looking at myself from some distance. This is something I carried with me into my adulthood.
My memories have no emotions. I do not remember any words, only loud sounds of heavy boots. Why wasn’t I asleep?
I am afraid of closed doors. But I still close the doors more often than I leave them open.
This is factual. It was in response to a prompt of writing about something that defined me. I kept going over some events in my life, but kept returning to this that has no details. I felt the need to put it on paper. I know it is very raw, but I want to leave the spaces as they are.
Thank you Daniel, Daisy Moses Chief Crackpot, and Charlie for reading it. And to Michael, as always.