My First Memory

I remember sitting in a green rubber raft. I was playing with big, fat nightcrawlers in a blue plastic container we’d picked up at Turnabenie’s, the drive-through market on our street. I remember putting down my wriggling worm and peering over the side of the inflated green sides of the raft to see us surrounded by shimmering dark water. My parents were both on the other side of the boat fishing, but I paid no mind to them. The darkness of the water beneath me was fascinating. I remembering reaching for it—I so wanted to touch it. I wanted to explore the new exciting expanse below my bobbing raft. I leaned a little farther over the edge of the raft, reached a little farther to that shimmering dark green. I remember slipping forward. My hand entered first, it was a rush of cold and wet and new and I loved it. I let my arm and head follow it into the new land. I remember my whole body being underwater, and I was just urging myself down deeper. I didn’t move my body, I just sank and observed. I remember feeling my dad’s hands come to rest softly around my waist. I knew they were meant to be there. He tiled me forward, then up, and then we both surfaced out of the water. I remember Dad turning me toward him and asking me if I liked it. I just smiled. I remember seeing Mom in the background frantically splashing her way through the water toward us. Dad pulled us back to the raft.