In my earliest memory, I am in a closet with the vacuum and coats over my head. A small closet. There is a cardboard box on the floor. It is full of coins. I think I am wearing a smocked dress. I can hear adults talking in the other room, not joyous, not angry, just talking. I am grabbing fistfuls of coins and letting them fall into the box. I don’t remember the sound of it. I do not recall a smell. But I remember the feeling of the coins in my fingers and the coats brushing against the top of my head.
I think this was my grandmother’s house. I think this two days before my second birthday. Those details are not a part of this memory but I do remember that in this memory something had happened to grandma that was keeping all the adults talking around the table. And left me alone in the closet with all the money.
This is the only memory I have of being in – what I think was – my grandmother’s house, the house my father grew up in. I have no memories of her although my cousin and I were told she was thrilled to have granddaughters after raising four boys.
My grandmother died the afternoon of my second birthday party. She left the party early because she didn’t feel well. I know in her eulogy, my uncle said, “She spent the day with family celebrating her grandaughter’s 2nd birthday.” The story goes that I called out “Happy Birthday to Me!” in church – but I have since learned that my mother’s stories rarely reflect true events.
I was perfectly content alone in the closet next to the vacuum, under the hanging coats, letting coins cascade back into the box.
Eclectic Dharma 