Pink Flamingos

My earliest memory is of pink flamingos.

My memory at this age is more like a slide show on a 1980’s projector
than a running film. Short bursts of light-filled scenes indicating
activity and action, colors faded like my grandparent’s polaroid photo
albums. I can remember feeling confined by my stroller as we
traversed the San Diego zoo, choosing instead to toddle along beside
it. Blasted thing never moved fast enough anyways.

“Slow down, Gretchen,” Mama says.  I pretend not to hear. The pathway
before me is wide, inviting. Cast iron, scalloped railing
decoratively barricades me from joining the Alice in Wonderland
birds. Pretty in pink and knobby knees, I identify with them. Urging
my mother to look, I jab a little finger at them as if she didn’t
know in which direction to avert her gaze. I helped direct her
attention, just to be sure. Bouncing, giggling excitement bubbles out
of me. Nothing but complacency and a desire to preen comes from my
new, feathered friends.

Soon, I am tired. The day is long, flamingos fade, and I need a place to
lay my head. Stroller-prison isn’t an option. Daddy can’t carry me –
he is out to sea. Papa’s shoulder shall have to do. Yes, this suits
me just fine. Mama and my grandparents talk about when Daddy will
come home next. “Will you be here to meet him at the harbor?” She
asks them. I drift off. Mama snaps a picture.

So the beginning of my life ensues. In lace bonnets I play. Infinite
sea, infinite sand, waving palms cast dancing shadows on the beach.
Daddy home, and away again, and home again. I am splashed by whale
spouts and dolphin tails, giggling at the swift, shy anemones and
bumpy starfish. Here I dreamt and am dreaming still. Always missing,
never forgetting. Idealized nostalgia in which I lack nothing: Daddy,
mommy, Eric, and eternal sunshine.