My earliest memory takes place in our old house on West Academy Street in Winston-Salem. I was about three years old. While my baby brother napped, I sat with my mom at the kitchen table, eating an afternoon snack of sliced apples in a bowl of vanilla yogurt. The sun beamed through the open window, and my bare feet dangled above the floor.
Then, a monstrous garbage truck rumbled to the dumpster across the street in the church parking lot. From my place at the table, I watched the steel talons of the front loader hoist the dumpster over the cab of the truck and empty its contents—a noisy avalanche of black garbage bags fell into the truck bed in heavy metallic thumps and the sounds of breaking glass. The truck drove away.
Then, there was the crunch of apples and the sweetness of yogurt. And Mom, smiling at me, delighting in my delight. The world was huge, loud, and wondrous, and I was safe, happy, and loved. I’ve never forgotten it. Thanks, Mom.
I wish you, gentle reader, a Happy Mother’s Day, while realizing that Sunday’s holiday is complicated, particularly for those who have suffered the loss of loved ones. I share my memory in hopes that it might prompt your own. As Joan Didion claimed, “We tell ourselves stories in order to live.”
Andrew Taylor-Troutman is the author of the book with Wipf and Stock Publishers titled This Is the Day: A Year of Observing Unofficial Holidays about Ampersands, Bobbleheads, Buttons, Cousins, Hairball Awareness, Humbugs, Serendipity, Star Wars, Teenagers, Tenderness, Walking to School, Yo-Yos, and More. He lives in Chapel Hill, North Carolina where he is a student of joy.
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