My Earliest Memory

The back of the chair was wooden, a gnawed frame that held two green cushions that formed the part where you, well, sat. The color was ubiquitous in the 70s. I remember seeing it everywhere, that much I do remember. The foam within those cushions was horribly firm, as if the modern chemicals of today, harbored by secret Ikea chemists, had not been discovered yet. They had a wire frame, as well, that had worn through where the cushions rubbed up against the black wooden frame. The arms were held up by a series of small, carved posts, simple pieces that were created with a spinner and carving knife. For some reason, I recall these were also quite gnawed as well, as if the family dog had elected to redecorate. But the fact was, the dog was small thing, according to the pictures, so I have no idea how he could reach the armrests for a decent munch.

This color, only solid. And uglier.

I don't know why this horrid chair comes to mind. I was lighter then, able to sit at the top of the back-cushion, something that gave the illusion that I was riding on the shoulders of the person seated, but, well, I remember that wasn't happening. My legs dangled, pudgy and pajama-ed. Before me was a tableau.

A blue terrycloth robe's collar, folded over and forcing little rivulets of fuzzies to jut upwards like wayward weeds on an alien landscape. There, my father's bald head reared up. I remember there were several red lines, scabs, from the razor he had attempted to use to finish shaving his head. He had to. He was losing his hair in clumps.

He was dying of cancer. The whole concept of chemotherapy was brand new, apparently, and this symptom has not changed in the process. The calendar fills in the rest of the dates-he passed away in 1974, so I had to have been 4 years old. He had resigned himself to the fact that he would be dead soon, and, as my mother elaborated, he was between induced comas, from what she even remembered.

The memory, I'm thinking, was someone put me on that chair, behind his head to tell me to cut his hair. The hair that did not exist, but in the realm of ironic-ness.

This is my earliest memory. I like to recall that my mother insisted I remember this man, this twig before me, for he wasn't going to be around soon. The words still form in my head but I cannot recall the exact moment of their recitation. But those words? They haunt me, as they are something you should not have to explain to a four year old, I'm thinking.

And there I was, pretending, at four years old, to give a haircut to a man who would be father. I do not recall his face, I do not see his smile anywhere in my memory.

Just the back of his bald head, burn marks and all.

As I write this, a young person is walking across the parking lot in front of the coffeehouse. He's holding a hot-pink tablet in one hand, his other, his own four year old. What will her memories be? He won't hopefully have to consider his existence like that young father of mind did.

That is my earliest memory. I keep thinking it shouldn't be, I shouldn't be afforded that thought. But with deeper retrospect-yes, it is the memory that works. As soon I had a memory to work with, that infant that would be me, he only saw a man that was slowly losing his existence to a disease. I would be remembering a scarecrow. But with this memory, the silliness of it all, I'm okay. He's okay, there, in my memory. Getting an imaginary haircut from a 4 year old.