The Isolation Journals - Day 58

Prompt:  Write about the earliest moment that you remember in overwhelming detail—from a journey, at home, or among people you loved (or hated). Write about it as Nabokov set out to do in his work: “to transform [it] into something that can be turned over to the reader in printed characters to have him cope with the blessed shiver.”

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There are the barest, shimmering moments from earliest childhood.  Pretending to "mop" the deck like Cinderella, using an unidentified object (an upside down Barbie?  a paintbrush?) and water from the kiddie pool, resulting in a giant splinter in the bottom of my bare foot.  Answering "no" when my dad asked, "Do you love me?" and watching a tear roll down his cheek. 

Not all bad or sad or painful things, though.  Swimming in Grace's pool and then sitting on her top bunk, mainlining Nerds straight out of the box, our hair still damp and wild with chlorine and humidity.  Riding in the back of Mom's Bronco, probably on the way to the mall, listening to the Beach Boys.  

Mostly bad or sad or painful things, though.  Funny how those memories are always stickier.

The day I broke my wrist was so hot and bright and long.  I was four.  That year we lived in Florida.  I hated my preschool.  I hated the teacher, I hated the other kids.  I'm sure both were objectively fine, but at the time, it was awful.  The first day, I had to be dragged in, kicking and screaming.  I held onto the door frame until my chubby hands were pried loose, one at a time.  I still remember one kid, Stephen Jenkins, who used to pick PlayDoh out of the grooves of his sneaker soles, and eat it.  Pick his nose, and eat it.  Smear paste on his hands, let it dry, peel it off, and eat it.  He's lucky he has a generic name, or I would 1000% Google him to learn whether he became a chef, a dentist, or a serial killer.  My money is on serial killer.

But I digress.  We aren't here to fixate on weird little Stephen.  So I broke my left wrist one day at preschool.  Out on the underwhelming playground under the white-hot Florida sun, I sat on the seesaw.  The metal seat so hot that on first contact, you wonder if you've possibly just peed your pants, warmth and numbness all at once.  A bigger kid sat on the other side, sending me up, up impossibly high.  

The bigger kid refused to budge, wouldn't seesaw, wouldn't let me down.  Did I call for help?  No.  I just bailed.  The old tuck and roll.  Only it didn't work the way it might in a cartoon.  I landed wrong, very wrong, and the blinding pain in my wrist was unlike anything I had ever felt before.  I cried and cried, cradling my injured arm like it was a damaged baby bird.  The teacher just sat me in a lawn chair and let me wail.  

I remember just crying, ceaselessly, the rest of the school day.  No visit to the nurse, no phone call home, just sit in the corner and cry it out, kid.  Still crying when my mom picked me up.  Probably still crying when I eventually returned to school a couple days later with a cast.  Ah, the 80s - the waning glory days of neglecting kids without fear of litigation.