I don’t have very many memories from when I was little, mainly because I’m horrible at recollecting them. Most of the time I can barely recall if I ate dinner the night before, let alone what it was.

There are a few things that stand out through the fog; I see an opaque murky white mist and what feels like thousands of legs wearing suit paints with knee caps at eye level. Its the first image that comes into focus, and then suddenly all at once a wall of voices slams into my eardrums. My heartbeat is a light pitter patter, but it feels as if my whole body shakes with each beat. In hindsight, this is probably because I was four years old and so small you could see my shoulder blades sticking out from the back of my dress.  The dress was black velvet, and the material felt awful against my sweaty palm. My brother who was not much older or taller than me was holding onto my other hand as hard as he could. His knuckles white from trying to not let me get swept away by the rush of suit pants; and his face was flushed in splotches of pink from trying not to cry. It was time to leave the viewing and go to the actual service. My brother and I didn’t go to the viewing, instead we were told to stay in the room with food until some pair of suit pants came to get us. 

I don’t remember much after the rushing wave of suit pants, but when I asked my Mom in a hushed whisper late one night when I was around twelve, if I knew what it meant when Dad died. She told me, “I don’t think you understood, but you started crying, and asked why your Daddy wouldn’t wake up?” Personally, I think I knew he was gone. I just didn’t understand where or why is body didn’t still contain him.