Memory: pt. 2

As a girl, I had a happy childhood despite the many minor tragedies that happened. I can't exactly claim them to be major tragedies because they didn't afflict the entire nation, just myself and my kin. One of my earliest memories is riding in a stroller at some kind of balloon rally. The stroller was yellow and orange check with clear vinyl "windows" and a crochet trim with pom- poms along the top. My father was carrying my brother on his shoulders and I was in the stroller as my mother was pushing it. I was looking out to my right and I saw a hot air balloon in the colors of the rainbow. It is still one of my fondest memories. I believe that I was three at the time, but I'm not entirely sure.

To this day, my mother insists that I am wrong and that my parents never owned a stroller like that. Now, as I look back over the years, I realize that we were probably down in Florida when this happened. Mom was possibly pregnant with my youngest brother at the time, but I'm not sure. It's sad when you're told constantly that your earliest memory is incorrect. It makes you question other memories at times. But, to be fully honest, I can't exactly declare that this memory I have just shared with you is incorrectly recalled. You can't falsely recollect the scent/taste of clay dust mixed with straw. You can't falsely remember the patterning of a balloon or the way the heat made the very air shimmer. Or the smell/taste of warm vinyl and cotton. Some things can't be imagined. I attempted to argue with my mother on this point but she refuses to listen or even consider the possibility that I was right.

You'll find my mother is something of an antagonist and protagonist in my life. She is a very devoted mother who loves her children dearly, but for the sake of everything holy, don't cross her or be around when she has her crazy days. The woman's worse then a fistful of angry hornets then. I love my mother, I truly and honestly do. I love her quite deeply. But I've always questioned her love for me. Even today, with the intellectual understanding that my mother does love me in her own strange way, I question if she truly does.