WHAT I WAS

The unutterable comfort and security of lying beneath the cool sheets, my mother on one side, the other half of my life, my father, on the other. The blissful reassurance of unconditional love, the inexplicable knowledge that while I was with them, all would be right in the world.
It was odd, that long before I knew that the cadences of voice were words or language, I still knew what they meant, understood love and life and indescribable comfort and security.
My earliest memory was about being upset in the place that was foreign and dark. The room was huge, the lights were only present on one end, the shadows shrouding the edges. I stare at the black, it creeps forward, snatching at me.
The voice from behind calls me back, to light and warmth and familiarity. I don’t understand the words, don’t need to, I can see the brightness of love shining through the soul. Its telling me not to cry, that everything will be ok. It points to the light-bulb above, my line of sight follows the arm, the lifted finger, the brilliant colors of the chandelier. A little person grabs at my feet from below, and I am startled. I am taken into someone else’s arms, closer to the ground, closer to the shadows that will get me. I make my protests known, but am even more upset when the loud voice yells at the little person. Can he not see the aching misery in her eyes?
There is the photograph of me, as a baby, in my mothers arms, when our skins were an identical shade of milk white. She’s pointing at the chandelier in the drawing room of our new house, and I’m gazing raptly at it. My sister stands at my mothers feet, reaching only knee height which is surprising because I always remember her being much bigger at that time.