The Memory in My Skin
Scribe’s Writing Prompt: Childhood Memory
My son said his favorite part of the day was vacuuming the car together. This surprised me at first. I never would’ve imagined he’d enjoy such a mundane task. But then, I remembered. I remembered the moments I shared with my father and how much weight they carried. These moments were more like touch than memory — my hands carry the thoughts and my heart holds the pictures more clearly than my mind.
Here’s one.
I remember pushing my tiny thumbs against the handle of my dad’s 86’ SAAB trying desperately to swing the door open and climb inside. Armor All tickling my nostrils as I gripped the smooth, slick edges of the black leather seats. I’m not sure if I gripped for safety or for feel, either way, my little body rocked every time my dad shifted gears. My eyes followed his massive hand on the shifter trying to anticipate each jolt. The hand on the speedometer moving faster and faster before dropping back down to null. It was a game. A joy ride. The drive may have made weaker men carsick, but my dad and I were invincible.
This memory and several others cover me. I can wear them more easily than I can think of them. It’s an odd sensation. Some are lighter than others. This one is a heavy coat. It’s warm and protective — that’s how I felt in my dad’s 86’ SAAB. Those…
