My first Memory may not be a true memory. As I tell this story you may see why I believe this is a strong possibility.
I must have been around two years old.
The earliest I can remember is the park. I recall playing in park with my mother. I believe that this park was just across from the apartment complex we lived in situated somewhere on the Concho River in San Angelo, Texas. If we are ever happen to be in the area at the same time I might just try to show you where I think this occurred.
I was happy. I was a child having fun. What more could any ask from a memory. As I sit here typing thinking about that time I get chocked up hoping that my 4yo son is always as happy as I was at that moment.
Eventually we crossed the street and went back to the apartment. I can still almost see in my minds eye a little girl who I thought was the most beautiful girl in the world running on the second floor walkway. She had long strait shiny brown hair. Lovely blue eyes. I don’t recall if I ever played with her or if I even talked to her. I just know I liked her.
The next memory is of moving men coming into the apartment and taking my toys away. I jumped on my riding horse. Do you remember those? The ones with a spring to make it bounce up and down. I stayed on until I was forced to depart my steed. I was not a happy camper.
Next my memories jump to me standing next to my father in the cab of his yellow or maybe orange truck. I don’t know whether it was a Ford or a Chevy, but it had one long seat from door to door. My sister was between my mother and me. I’m unhappy and my father stops at a store and buys me a toy.
I was happy again. Hey I’m a toddler, simple things simple things.
This is where the memory ends.
I have no idea how old I actually was when I was finally left with the couple who adopted me. She was my fathers sister. For clarity anytime I talk about my adoptive parents I will call them mom and dad. I do know I am now in possession of a birth certificate that states they are my birth parents. My father told me that one of his conditions for letting them adopt us was that our last names not be changed and he was pretty furious when this occurred. I do know that he came to visit often and somewhere deep down in the my subconscious I knew who he was long before a neighbor girl spilled the beans about us being adopted when I was seven or eight. I would stare at him. I felt a connection to him. I knew who he was without really knowing.
I have talked to my mom, my grandmother, my father, and a few years ago my mother about how I was left with mom and dad. I have heard four different stories.
My point is nothing happened like I remember. My father and my mother were no longer together at the time I was left with mom and dad for the final time.
My earliest memory a lie…
It seems too real and too vivid to be a dream. I remember dreams I’ve had when I was five and six (before I even knew one existed, I was the fourth musketeer…that was a reoccurring dream). Those dreams aren’t as clear and precise as this “memory”. I don’t know how old I was when I consciously became aware of this memory, but it feels like it has always been present.
I finally have found an explanation I am willing to
My father said that many times before we were left for
good we had been takin over to my aunts to stay while tried to go their separate ways. Maybe I’m remembering one of those occasions times.
Maybe my happiest memory of my birth mother is not a