My Earliest Memory

I needed to soothe myself with the motion of kicking the mattress repeatedly.

I stood on the broad leaf patterned couch with my arm resting on the back cushion in my footed pajamas. The material felt itchy on my arms, and the snaps were cold on my skin. Momma picked me up, her hands under my arms. How I remember those soft, but capable hands. She laid me down on the couch, unsnapped my pajama bottoms, and before I could move, I was half-naked on the blanket with my feet in the air. She went about the business of changing my diaper. I don’t remember anyone else in the room. It was dark outside the window, and the light from the overhead bulb made me wince and rub my eyes with my tiny fists.

Momma put me down in my crib for the evening. I began kicking my foot in the air and dropping it onto the mattress. Thwap…thwap….thwap it fell, in a sleepy rhythm, lulling me into a light sleep. I was awakened by a large, rough hand around my ankle. My father pushed my foot to the mattress, and held it firmly, until I stopped pushing against it. He let go, and left the room. I remember feeling anxious and unable to move. I needed to soothe myself with the motion of kicking the mattress repeatedly. Finally, sleep overtook my little body.

I loved my father very much, but he had demons I would never know, or understand. Ones that made the kicking of baby feet intolerable.

Sharon Hudson 2024