First Memory

I want to think of this as my first memory:

sitting in the sun looking out our sliding

glass door into the garden on an especially

hot day, the sense of having been somewhere

before and that an ocean had delivered me to

where I was at that moment shifted the light

in the room. Made the noise of my mother

making eggs and toast in the kitchen go

on mute. It is a rolling, churning memory

with white caps and mist spewing off the tips

like the waves at Stinson Beach on a windy

day. Whenever I face anything that needs

overcoming, I return to this sense that wherever I

came from, I’ve been given what it needs

to move through it. When I was younger,

it wasn’t as much a beacon as a sense that

maybe I was just here on borrowed time.

And as I grew, the act of me sitting out

and staring at a landscape in silence as if

waiting for some wave to come for me

is my way of knowing I can overcome.

About mrickmyer

Writer, poet and market strategist with print production and project management background. I have two wonderful little guys and a few step-children to boot. It's a full house and it is a bit nutty at times. But all in all, it's a wonderful life.
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