Parachute Lambs

Prompt: Have you ever tried to see how far back you can remember? How many layers of life you can peel apart till you find your very first recollection of life? This fuzzy haze of a first memory may seem simple and unimportant, but think of how it shaped you. It is yours. No one else can think or remember it for you. Before you grow too old to recapture it (with each passing year our minds lose a little bit more memory than the last), stretch back into your time machine and pull out the dusty artifact. Frame it through writing, or drawing, or song. Eloquence is not important, but rather the redemption of a flickering spark on the verge of extinction. 
 Me In My Crib
Lamby

First Memory 

Seventeen parachute-cloth lambs surround my face like a wedding veil

Trailing from my fuzzy head to my infant toes.

The pink-white bars of my crib cozily crowd around me

Like aspen trees clustered in a wintry forest.

I can’t say much, maybe a word or two,

But I see everything with spongy-bright eyes.

I soak in the colors of my nursery room

as I tighten my silver-dollar fists around a lambs squishy foot.

Soon I will call them lamby,

and one by one

They will disappear

Till only a single, slobbery

Tattered tuff

remains

With a soft-silky tag between its hind legs

fashioned for me to stroke between my chubby fingers.

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