I receive my greatest literary inspiration in elevators. Which is rather ironic considering the fact that I was terrified of elevators until I was almost fifteen years old. Then again I was also terrified of the deep end of swimming pools until I was eleven. And dogs until I was twelve. And I am still terrified of these to some degree. Except elevators. Elevators are now inspirational.
My brother is born. I am a pudgy two-year-old, toddling around the Hilcrest Hospital in Tulsa, Oklahoma. My parents are worried that I will become jealous of the new tiny red person who will soon be living in our house, so they buy me a Madame Alexander baby doll from the gift shop. When you "burp" her, she makes a hiccuping noise. She has tiny little crocheted booties on her feet. I name her Emily after the girl who lives in the house behind us, because my knowledge of names is rather limited. My Aunt Shari brings me a See'n'Say. It's orange-yellow. I would call it Macaroni & Cheese colored, but Crayola hasn't come out with that color yet. Regardless, Emily becomes my child, and the beginning of my neglection of Forrest (a.k.a. the new tiny red person).
According to the Psychoanalytic Quarterly, "'Earliest memories' or 'first memories' are terms used in psychoanalytic therapy to designate those few isolated recollections which usually precede the beginning of continuous remembrance." The earliest memory I can recall occurred when I was two years old. Psychoanalytic Quarterly has said on ages:
Continuous memory is stated to begin at different ages by different individuals, but usually not much before the age of five. An occasional person can remember nothing prior to so late an age as nine; sometimes no very early isolated memories either, but this is the rare exception. It is not unusual for a first memory to go back to the age of two years and even before.
My first memory is centered on the birth of my younger brother. However, he does not appear once in that memory. The only things my mind recalls are peripheral, superfluous. There is no substance to them. But they are colorful, and they are full of emotion. Is it more important that key people appear in memories, or is it enough that the essence of the memory is captured? I cannot remember Forrest that day, but I remember the enormity of the hospital, the small hiccuping baby doll that was placed in my arms, and the Macaroni-and-Cheese-colored gift from an aunt. Forrest is now an integral part of my life, but the doll and the toy are long gone. Did my mind know to hold on to those fleeting images rather than the eternal image of my new brother?