Summer of 1995.

This summer is the summer that has probably most defined how I see, think, and feel about the world. It is the summer when my memories first began to crystallize in a more definite form. I have a handful of recollections from before then- backwards clothes day in preschool, eating graham crackers in the basement of a church- but nothing solid. So, in many ways, this summer is the story of my beginning. How I came into being. The foundation of my life. And while it is not a continuous timeline of my summer by any means, when I think of my childhood, these are the images and sounds and words and motions that I know and that I feel.

My best friend at the time, Julie, had come over to my house to play. When it was time for my mother to drive her back to her own home, I had decided that I would prefer not to go along for the ride. I was tired, I didn't feel like it, I wanted to watch something on television, I probably whined. My father got involved. For one reason or another he became invested in the situation and his anger and bulging eyes broke me into tears and the next thing I know I was pinned against the wall by my neck with my father's hand. I am in the hallway, to the left of the bathroom door. I can see my mother and Julie watch on as my crying slowly stifled to a stop and my arms and legs grew slightly numbed. I was told I would be going with Julie to drop her off, and I believed him. As it turns out, I was not good company for Julie in the car that day anyhow. It would be years before Julie's mother allowed her to return to my house, so I suppose the problem was solved.

I liked to walk into the room in between the living room and the kitchen, where the bookshelves were, and find the red dictionary or the white bible with the pastel illustrations. With the minimal reading skills I had, I would carefully examine the letters that made up the indents in the side of the dictionary and search for my favorite pictures in the bible. On my way over to the kitchen, I would open the liquor cabinet and deeply breathe in the smell of old wood, liquor, and dust. I reached inside around all of the glass bottles and found the lamb made of sugar that was the centerpiece of every Polish Easter table setting. After taking a lick, I would reach back around the bottles and replace the lamb into the wooden bowl full of jellybeans. I closed the cabinet and continued into the kitchen where I would sit at the table and watched my mother cook.

It was late, for a five year old at least, when I walked into the kitchen. My mother was sitting at the table, in the spot next to the wall beneath telephone. There was a half empty coffee on the table in my mother's coffee cup- glass, tinted brown, an unrounded handle. Next to it, a half empty bottle of wine. In my mother's hand was a wine glass, also half empty. On my mother's face were tears. I continued to the cabinet and reached for the identical copy of my mother's coffee cup and filled it with milk. The brown tint of the glass made the contents look very similar to my mother's unfinished coffee. I took a seat at the far end of the table, closest to the back door. I took a sip of my milk as my mother took a sip of her wine. I looked at my mother's face as tears rolled down her cheeks. There was once a time when I would have climbed into her lap, extended my arms, and offered a hug. I can't remember that time, but I can feel it. But by this summer I knew that was no longer welcome. I had grown accustomed to the hugs being pushed away, the embrace greeted with more annoyance than welcome. So I did what had become the new tradition. I sat across the table, in a parallel world, hoping my mother felt a comfort in my presence that I no longer felt in hers.