First memories were a strange and wondrous thing. They were blurry and distorted messes of collected images and thoughts and childish emotions. They were proof that the past was real, or was at least real to their beholder. It was a sort of validation, an invaluable Turing test of the psyche. One could argue against this praise of commemorated antiquity, but why would anyone wish to do such a thing?

Her first memory was the only proof her mother ever existed.

It started with a sparkler grasped between her tiny fingers and a warm hand held to her own. Orange sparks ignited and flew and danced in chaotic unison. They were the embodiment of giddy excitement and she remembered how her heart fluttered and danced with them, mouth agape and tongue catching the wind. There was no sound in this silent picture, only warmth, delight, and a thousand fiery flickers and the taste of smoke and crisp autumn air.

It was picturesque. Did she need any other image of life to comfort her? If she could choose what to remember, what to pick and choose that which belonged in the scrapbook, it would be this one snapshot. If she could choose what to reconsider and remove, those other memories would be crumpled and torn and thrown aside; the whole set would be gone and she’d be left holding this one moment. She would give it all away to be left alone with that night at the carnival.

But that memory was relative. When everything else was gone she would never know why that sparkler mattered so damn much.

More moments flashed by from that night. The first taste of cotton candy, a euphoric taste that caused her to yelp with surprise and wide-eyed happiness and send her mother into a fit of laughter.

Was that her voice? That soft, kindhearted voice… Would she still sound like that today? How would she speak to her daughter in the present, if she could?

Carousel horses galloped against the wind, inspired by an enchantment of music and blinking lights. Her feet dangled far above the stirrups but her hands held fast to the painted-gold pole, her mother’s hands protecting her. The night sky went steadily by, the grown-ups and their children became repeating blurs and the world was escaped in her eyes. She could ride forever through the night, the taste of sugar on her lips, the sound of music and laughter and whoops of joy in her ears, and the sight of dazzling electric candles and fireworks. She could ride past the petting zoo and the cages of furry creatures, past the tent of mirrors and stalls of fried pastries and fruit pies and fresh cheeseburgers, past the shooting gallery and the stage of exotic dancers and the great big Ferris wheel that stood above mountains like the Tower of Babylon itself, jumping gracefully over the fence and racing into a different future, an eternally joyous place. Her eyes drooped sleepily and she smiled. If only it could last just a bit longer…

A loud bang startled her. A man in a pink suit and green, frizzy hair was making balloon animals for a small boy nearby. He chuckled and discarded the popped head of a grey canine. She turned her head back to her mother, who was crouched and speaking to her in a solemn voice but her words were muted and her face a watercolor obscurity. She didn’t understand what mother was saying at the time: they were adult words spoken to a groggy child. A moment later came a kiss on the cheek and suddenly she was walking away, but her daughter was too drowsy to call out.

“Come back!” she screamed at the memory of the woman.

And then she was gone. Another set of hands gripped her sides and hoisted her into cradled arms. These hands were firm. She looked up and saw her father looking back down at her. His face betrayed sympathy, affection, and a love she couldn’t yet know.

Don’t you worry, my daughter. I’ve got you.

The memory came to a close. Her eyelids were so heavy. She screamed at herself to wake back up. Change the memory: jump out of his arms and go to her! Grab her hands and pull her back, anything to look at her face again! Her voice, her face, her touch, all these things she wanted to reach in and pull into the present!

She didn’t struggle. She fell asleep with his words echoing in her dreams.

I will never let you go. Father will take care, my dear. Father knows best.

Father knows best.

~Y, 4