Earliest Memory – part 1
Papa has come to visit. Tall, dark-haired, deeply tanned, and mustachioed like a Muppet, he is sitting in Mommy’s reclining chair and speaking in tongues that I don’t always understand. Je veux manger vos doigts, he growls. I can’t remember exactly what this means, but I remember that it’s a joke because he tells it every time, so I giggle and flail as if to flee as I’m supposed to. When he isn’t speaking English I get bored and my gaze drifts from his dark face and mustache and over to the chair, with its overlapping threaded pattern of brown, black, and white. The cologne he wears hangs thick in the air, overpowering the safe and familiar musky-damp smell of Mommy’s chair.
His Face
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