I can only remember things from when I was about six. Before that, it's just a blur— colors, sounds, maybe a scent here or there, but nothing clear. The first real memory I have is of a warm afternoon in our old backyard. My mom had dressed me in this bright red shirt that I used to love. It had a small tear near the hem, but I refused to stop wearing it. My dad was setting up the camera on a little foldable tripod, squinting at the screen and muttering about how it wouldn't stand straight.
When we finally managed to sit still long enough for the photo, my dad cracked a joke about my front teeth— how they looked like they were trying to run away from each other. Everyone laughed. I did too, even though a tiny part of me felt a sting. I remember crossing my arms and trying not to smile too wide. But then my mom kissed the top of my head and said, 'You have the brightest smile in the world.'
It's funny. Every time I think of that moment, I can almost hear the sound of the wind chimes on our porch. We had this old metal one shaped like a crescent moon. I think it fell during a storm later that year. I missed it more than I thought I would. I also had a sketch book. I love~ drawing.