I Remember Childhood

Then:

I remember city streets decorated with the remnants of food and paper. Wires were strung above me, from telephone pole to apartment building. The passing trolley swept everything into the air.

I remember a brightly lit deli where almost every day, I got a fresh, warm, roll. I remember pulling the soft dough out of its cocoon and spelling my name for the cashier so he would pronounce it correctly. (If you didn’t have one of a handful of names in Southwest Philly, people got confused.)

I remember my mother holding me in dance class while I cried, fearful of a clown making its way across the room toward me.

I remember the candy store, red sticks of candy wrapped to look like lipstick.

I remember my aunt’s lighted mirror sitting on the floor of her room as she prepared to go out. I remember the soft brush she skimmed across my eyelids.

I remember talking to my neighbors in the early morning while they sat on my porch and asked me to come out and play.

I remember my great grandmother defending me after I broke something, saying I only told “a white lie.” I remember my mother responding that there was no such thing.

I remember picking chewing gum from the playground during recess, and thoughtfully putting it in my mouth.

I remember sitting in the backseat of a car, holding a stray black cat in my arms as we took her to the SPCA.

I remember sitting on the steps of my grandmother’s corner rowhome, the salty cement scraping my child’s thighs.

I remember falling asleep next to her in bed, excited by the noises of cars and motorcycles passing by, lights occasionally glittering through the darkened windows.

I remember listening to 10,000 Maniacs, “Our time in Eden,” while my friend and I lay in foldout chairs on hot July grass in South Jersey, which seemed a million miles away from where I belonged.

Now:

I remember gazing at the tops of rowhouses on the cloudy morning when my daughter was supposed to be born. (She didn’t appear until just after midnight.)

I remember my boyfriend (now husband) kissing me on a sidewalk in South Philadelphia on a quiet June night.

I remember my dream last night, where I was stripping wallpaper from a large room and emptying drawers from the former inhabitants. I was going to make it new again. I was going to make it mine.

*This post was done as part of a writing workshop hosted by Christine at Coffees and Commutes.

Image: “from our porch” by Wugging Gavagai via Flickr using a Creative Commons license.

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Tagged as: childhood, Southwest Philadelphia, writing workshop