A Brief Autobiography (Part One)

I was born in Nashville, in 1980, and given my father’s name. I spent the first five years of my life in Nashville, or so I am told; I really don’t have any memory of it. I have memories of my time spent there, but nothing like a memory of spending five years there. You could string my memories of the time spent there together into a story, and you would only have a few weeks, or perhaps a few months, with which to build a plotline. I remember leaving, but I don’t remember that I was five when I did so. I don’t remember if I might have left before and then came back, like on a vaction or something like that. I do remember when I left and didn’t come back, at least not for a very long time. And I am told that I was five years old when this happened, and since the source of this information is my mother, I take it to be true. We all believe our mothers, they never lie. Or at least we like to think they don’t. And anyway they hold valuable knowledge about important parts of our stories that we know nothing about.

My first memory, the earliest moment of my life that I can remember clearly and without the help of my mother, took place before I left Nashville. Given the content of the memory, however, I feel it wasn’t too long before the exodus. It was snowing and I was out on the porch of my grandmother’s house with my father and my little brother, Justin. It was Christmas time, and I was four years old, and Justin three. My father was visiting us, he no longer lived with us, and he was asking us what we wanted for Christmas. I remember what I got for Christmas that year: an electric (though not remote controlled) police car. My brother, as always, got exactly the same thing. But on this day, my first memory, when my father asked my brother and I what we wanted for Christmas, I remember my exact answer: “I want you to come home.” Justin nodded in agreement. My father’s response was, again exactly, “That is up to your mother.” And I don’t remember anything after that. But that conversation, or piece of conversation, however long it was, maybe 30 seconds, I remember perfectly. I don’t know how long after that it was that we moved, but I do know that we spent the next Christmas in Oklahoma. And I know that my dad never came home. The number of times I saw him after we moved I could probably count on both my hands.

The last of which was the moment he died, two years ago this week.

Oddly enough, I miss him.