The Memory

I was nine years old. Summer air was just rolling in, and boy, the heat was intense.  It was the first day of summer break, so a sense of celebration was in the atmosphere.  Momma had been back at home, baking an apple pie like tradition stated she should.  She always made an apple pie when there was a reason to celebrate.  Just like she always made something gross like meatloaf when there was reason to mourn.  There was never any reason to mourn though, those were happy days.  I remember walking in the front door that day to our cookie-cutter, suburban home, smelling the freshly baked pie and exhaling a smile.  My little brother, John, was upstairs making a racket with the new toys my dad never neglected to buy for him.  The sound was familiar, the sound brought warmth. It was a typical day in every way, and I liked that.  We sat down for dinner at 6 o’clock and began to devour the food on our plates as if it were our last meal.  Dad told us about his day at the office as Momma wiped the food off John’s face.  I complained about the broccoli on my plate, and Momma made me eat it anyways.  Dinner would end once silence started to occur; once I stopped complaining, John stopped fussing, and Dad stopped telling us about his day.  Momma would clean the dishes, and all would be right with the world.  That day has probably been forgotten by each of my family members.  Nothing significant happened that day, but, for whatever reason, it is the one memory I cannot stop thinking of.

            A big, rough hand landed hard against my skin. My memory, my very favorite memory, shattered from my mind like a windshield in a car wreck.  A stale, moldy piece of bread was pushed in front of me.  My bonds were loosened so that I could eat.  What was the point?  That was the question I could not stop asking myself.  Why was I there?  The coldness of the dank basement I was locked in started to consume me.  I tried my best to conjure up my memory for warmth, but it would not come.  I needed my memory.  It was not even a particularly happy memory, yet I cherished it above all of the rest.  There was something about that day—something that my nine-year-old self could not have noticed until the day of my capture; the normalcy that I would never get back.  I had no idea.  I had no idea what would take place that summer.  I thought of my Momma once more.  I thought of her apple pie and our family dinners. I wonder what the family dinners are like now.  I bet Momma makes a whole lot more meatloaf.