My First Memory.
I'm not sure why I'm writing this. The me-me-me style of my daily blog roll inspired it. It's something that I've always shelved in the back of my mind and never was able to share with anybody.
Maybe because nobody would care? Should care? It's something so insignificant and personal that really it's almost obscene to demand somebody's attention just for this. But aren't blogs a shrine to self-centeredness?
So bear with me.
Nineteen... Sixty... something... I must have been 3, or not even, because I obviously couldn't reach well the objects on a table. I had to stretch myself standing on the tip of my toes and tentatively grab something I couldn't quite see.
My father had just taken home some ceramic mugs that were a prize associated with the consumption of Ovomaltina (possibly Ovaltine in the anglo world?). My brother Fabio was having an Ovomaltina breakfast every single day, religiously, and maybe some coupons had been mailed. The mugs were white with bright orange broad stripes running diagonally. Dad took them out of the cardboard box and alligned them on the kitchen sink. My mother possibly admired them, some fuss was made, maybe she wasn't exactly gushing over them but you have to keep in mind that this is all through the lens of a two-and-a-half year old.
I tried to grab one by the handle although they told me to be careful. It clumsily slipped from my hand, fell on the floor and broke.
Beyond repair. It was broken, gone. Fragments were quickly swept off the floor and thrown in the garbage while I was probably wailing.
I vaguely remember that there was some mild scolding, some contained hysteria. The "What Did I Tell You's."
That's it: my first memory. I remember a cherished materialistic possession, the color orange, a brand name, physical inadequacy and humiliation.
Don't draw any conclusions, you're not my therapist. Plus, I'm sure your first memory is worse than mine.
By the way, what's the first thing you remember? Post a comment, please. Italian or English, both acceptable.
posted by chingang at 3:51 AM
3 Comments:
Un sacco di gente in casa dei miei, al buio di un pomeriggio buio e piovoso senza corrente elettrica. Fuori c'era l'alluvione. E mi ricordo solo questa/queste candele attaccate sul fondo delle scatole di latta dei biscotti Doria. Non so fosse già il mio quarto compleanno o fosse il giorno prima. Non so nemmeno dire adesso se mi sentissi un po' a disagio: con gli occhi di un quarantaquattrenne direi di sì. Non una sensazione definita, un'impressione appena.
Non riesco a risalire più indietro...
Il commento dell'omonero mi fa riflettere sul fatto che in effetti anche io ho un ricordo dell'alluvione... vago, sfocato, ma me lo ricordo.
Mi ricordo che nel nostro salotto c'erano i mobili di quelli che stavano al pianterreno... I Signori Chiari. Mi ricordo la vista dalla terrazza, forse in braccio alla mamma, per salutare tre piani sotto, il babbo, che con altri estranei arrivava a casa in canotto. E mi ricordo il babbo con gli stivaloni da pesca. Eh sí... Mi sa che é precedente all'incidente dell'Ovomaltina.
Mia sorella più piccola in braccio alla mammma, che la sta allattando.
Io mi avvicino da sotto, a gattoni, certa che nessuno mi veda.
Ho 3 anni. Muoio di dolore per tutta l'attenzione che improvvisamente ho perso per colpa di questa sconosciuta. Mi attacco ad un dito della piccolissima mano e cerco di staccarlo con i denti. La vittima in lacrime, mia madre che urla, io che scappo e mi nascondo.
Ma c'è anche qualcosa di precedente, ma troppo vago. Giochi con un bambino attraverso la rete del giardino.
Post a Comment
<< Home