At some point in public school education, of which I am a proud product, every student is asked to write or discuss their first memory. I apologize for lack of memory of my first memory.  My first real memory is the abandonment of a book bag.

I remember third grade. I had a black book bag complete with an attached raincoat. Raincoat never fit. I was a larger child than most. Mrs. January was my teacher. A large black woman who was known to be strict. One day as I spoke out of turn she revoked my chocolate milk privilege at lunch. Perfect punishment for a child. I remember eating lunch one day. I can still smell the cafeteria. A strong odor of cleaning products mixed with rotten lettuce and delicious red beans and rice. I have no idea what I was eating or why when my sister came to free me from school she let me finish my lunch. Not that I’m at all bitter about being allowed to finish. It’s one of those odd reflections. The things history never intended to be remembered but they somehow appear and never fit. My happy plate was followed with a quick walk to the car. I remember leaving my book bag at school. To a third grader the act of leaving the book bag at school overnight is a serious offense. I always wondered why eat lunch but leave the book bag?

With my book bag entrusted to the keepers of the school, we drove west down city streets. I remember the spot when I realized the reason I had been allowed to escape from school. It’s not uncommon for me to pass this spot daily. Most times I ignore the feelings but occasionally on stormy days for the soul I remember.

I remember when my sister told me what was happening. We were in the parking lot of the hospital. A parking lot that has since been filled by more rooms of the ever expanding complex. I wasn’t shocked. I already knew what was happening. Of course, when I first realized in the car I began to pray. Not a lengthy nor extremely religious prayer. It was simple, the type of prayer only the true desperate utter. A silent begging far too late for any reprieve. We walked into the hospital. I do not remember trip upstairs. I know the waiting room was filled with familiar faces. Walking into the waiting room I noticed a coffee vending machine. The type of machine that dropped a small cup and then filled by squirting awful tasting coffee through a small tube. Those machines don’t fascinate me anymore.

I remember leaving the waiting room to walk into the ICU. My father was diabetic. Basically diabetics suffer from blood clots. Usually those clots start in the toes and progress up the legs. My father’s clots began in his stomach. This is as much of the science I have cared to learn and I am very sure that what I do know is flawed. I don’t remember walking through the doors to the ICU. I remember on of the nurses asking me if I were there to see my father. Another followed with “He’s so young.” I remember the sound of the equipment that kept him alive until I could arrive. I don’t remember how he looked laying there in the hospital. The most frustrating part of loosing someone is not the loss itself but the loss of memory as time progresses. Days after the loss everything is clear and sharp with pain. Year after year pass and even though you want to remember, even dedicate yourself to the mission of remembrance, things are forgotten. Only bits and pieces remain. Then one day you question if you really cared about that person as much as you thought.

I remember being in the waiting room when the doctor entered to tell us all that my father had passed. I didn’t cry. I couldn’t let me mother see me cry then. I was now the man of the family. It’s odd how that distinction passes without any ceremony. One minute you’re the follower, learning everything you can, and then next it’s time for the big show.

I remember seeing for the first time deli ham, small bits of cheese trapped within the Swiss tunnels of the ham.  Red jello.  Maybe orange.  All soaked with tears.