“I can’t believe I’m doing this” I mutter into my wooly scarf. It’s 4 o’clock in the afternoon and the weather reads ten degrees Fahrenheit. I shift my weight and try to get into a more comfortable squatting position as the rocks dig into my boots. I look around; it’s a rather dreary day with no clouds in sight. I scribble in a notepad. Five minutes in and my hands are numb. If you haven’t correctly guess that I am cramped up behind a bush near the front door of my house in the dead of January winter, well, that’s obviously what I’m doing at the moment.
Duh. I’ll explain. It began approximately two weeks ago when a friend was back in town and insisted on catching up, or better known as let-me-tell-you-all-the-exciting-details-about-my-college-life-while-you-sit-and-listen. “It’ll be on me. ” She had graciously offered. We meet at a coffee shop and she’s relying all the details of her past few months all to my delight. Somewhere between talking about all the incredible sex she’s had and how cute the guys are, we’re onto discussing her childhood as I continuously dig into a decadent double-chocolate cake slice. She pauses. “What were you like as a kid, Malenie? ” She asks.
I glance up from my piece of caloric delight. This is sudden. “Uhm. ” And here I am now on a valiant quest to rediscover my childhood. So far, it hasn’t been fun. How many years have it been since I last thought of this bush? Sure, I pass by it every day to get to my car, take out the trash, and so on. According to vague memories, this was one of my favorite refuges as a kid. Hiding behind a bush is a little too snug despite my short stature, but would’ve been perfect for a scrawny kid. What was my definition of fun anyways? I jot down in bewilderment. I then pick up a smooth rock. Ah, something I can finally remember.
I was an avid rock collector; I collected rocks that had nothing to do with aesthetics, but rather particular ones that spoke to my six-year-old soul. The wind picks up and blasts frigid air through my scarf. Time to call it a day. For someone who can hardly recall what she had for dinner the previous night, this was problematic. The fact I couldn’t remember my childhood was starting to nettle me. My childhood wasn’t horrible by all means; I recall playing outside with the neighborhood boys and making my parents exasperated by the messes I made. And there was the color pink. I really really liked pink.
It’s my second day of observations and questions are starting to form in my head. What kind of person was Malenie as a child and when did she leave? This starting to sound lie an adventure. You know, kind of like a Harrison Ford- Indiana Jones feel. My objective: To unravel the mystery of the past while dodging misconceptions and possible danger (got to spice this up a little) to hopefully, in the end, answer all the generic existential questions of mine and quench the thirst of self-validation all in one neat package. This time I’m in the garage scrounging for anything that sparks nostalgia.
Nothing much has changed for the last fifteen years except for the accumulation of dust particles. Something pink catches my eyes. It’s the bicycle I received when I was ten and is currently the dustiest thing in this garage. It’s the middle of January but that doesn’t stop me. “What the hell are you doing, Malenie? ” My mom shouts out from the front door. Coldness nips at my cheeks as I make wobbly circles around the cul-de-sac. It’s been too long since I’ve last ridden a bicycle. “Don’t know! ” I shout back. I’m too busy trying to balance to see her reaction.
I don’t know what I’m doing, but this doesn’t feel nostalgic at all. I decide to take a break. This does remin me of how I use to bike around the neighborhood to fight off boredom. You see, I was an only child for a good portion of my childhood and I had no idea about the computers that would in the future encompass my life. I probably had stronger legs as a kid than I do now. I do wonder why I stopped. Jotting some notes, I head back inside. Time to try a different approach. Mom’s watching a cooking show on the T. V. I go sit next to her and wait until commercial break.
“Mom, what was I like as a kid? She answers without hesitation. “You’re still a kid. ” Alright, fair comment. “You know what I mean. ” I knew I was a pretty happy go-lucky kid. I loved the color pink. I was scared of the dark. On car rides at night, I thought the moon was following me. “You were less of a smart-ass back then. ” I grimaced at this. She doesn’t notice. “You would laugh at everything and make friends with anyone in your sight. You were really observant too, which was vexing for dad and me sometimes. ” Mom goes back to watching the chef kneading dough aggressively. I thank her and go to answer a text on my phone.
