Untitled: Chapter One

         On my first birthday, my mother planted strawberries in a flower bed in our backyard.  That summer, when they were ripe, my parents and I picked the plants bare, though I probably wasn’t much help at that point.  We went for a strawberry picnic, and a tradition was born.  Over the next few years, my friends started joining us for an annual two-day strawberry feast.
         The first day was spent harvesting the strawberries in the morning and preparing them all afternoon.  We made strawberry jam, chocolate covered strawberries, strawberry shortcake, strawberry smoothies, and anything else we could think of.  The kitchen was always left a mess of flour and pots and pans, but when we woke the next morning it would be spotless.  My mother has always been very good about these kinds of things.
         On the second day, my friends and I spent the entire morning getting dressed up.  Formal dress was, of course, required for such an occasion, and it took a while to dig to the backs of our mothers’ closets to find the prettiest sundresses, floppiest hats, and shiniest jewelry.  The second half of the second day was spent under our favourite tree by the lake enjoying our feast.
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         One night when I was five years old, a lot of things happened over a very short period of time.  Because I was so young, I don’t remember this night in its entirety, and sometimes what I do remember is only irrelevant detail, but I’ll tell you what I know.
         This night came in the beginning of summer.  I know this because my kindergarten promotion ceremony had been two days before.  Being the beginning of summer, it was a warm, clear night.  It’s not really important that it was night, it’s just that the darkness is one of the more prominent things I remember.  The light in the family room was flickering. 
         I was watching Rugrats, continuously inching the volume higher and higher, and I could hear shouting and fighting coming from my parents’ bedroom.  This happened every so often, and whenever it did, my dad would com into my room late at night and sit on the edge of my bed.  I would ask him to tell me what had happened, and he would. 
         It was always a fantastic story of a mighty dragon or an evil wizard or a great troll that was trying to steal me away from them.  Secretly, I was scared of monsters and very glad that my mom and dad were there to protect me.  I didn’t want to ruin tonight’s story, so I kept inching up the volume on the T.V. and looked out the window.  The strawberries would be ripe soon.
         Suddenly I heard the bedroom door fly open and slam shut.  I saw my mother’s face drifting down the hall toward the kitchen.  Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew that that face was attached to her head and then on to her neck, shoulders, torso, hips, and legs, down to her feet, which were on the floor, walking the same way that all people’s feet walk.  But all I remember is her face, gliding gracefully down the hallway.  I remember how the mascara was running down her cheeks, and that there were more tears hiding behind her eyes.
         Then I remember my father’s hands, large and tense at the ends of his muscular arms, swaying just slightly with his brisk pace as he moved toward the door.  He opened the door and paused for a moment with his right foot lifted slightly off the ground and his left foot already outside on the front porch.  In my peripheral vision I could vaguely see the upper half of his body turn back into the house, but my eyes had moved from his hands to his feet and would not be taken from them.  I watched as they walked out the door.
         In that moment, the only sound to be heard was the din of the toddlers on the television.  It was interrupted by one more choked sob from my mother, then I watched the door slam shut.
         I notice now that reading this gives a certain impression of what occurred that night, but my young eyes saw something completely different.
         Mom and Dad would be fighting some terrifying monster of course.  It must have hurt my mom pretty badly; I had never seen her cry before.  She must have been in the kitchen to look in the cupboards for some band-aides.
         My dad knew that there were no band-aides left from when he had helped me bandage my Barbies (Godzilla had attacked them the week before, and they had needed immediate medical attention.  Luckily, no one was killed), so he had gone to the store to get more.  The reason he turned back like that was probably just to make sure Mom would be all right wile he was gone.  That was all.
         I sat up in the living room far past my bedtime waiting for him to come home.  I want to hear the whole story of what had happened, and I knew I shouldn’t bother my mother when she was wounded.  Besides, I didn’t really want to hear it from her, anyway.  She wouldn’t know how to tell it right.
         Finally, at around midnight, I stumbled sleepily into my room.  I decided, grudgingly, that I could wait until morning to hear the story.  He never came home, though, and I guessed the story long before I ever heard it.