A Tilted Earth

He was wearing a tan corduroy page boy golf cap, his dark hair peaking out from either side and curling up in the back, clinging to the cap, a navy blue box stitch down vest, a blue and red plaid shirt with opal colored snaps down the front, and indigo jeans. In each of his hands were giant sugar cookies with colorful candies spotting the surface and sealed in plastic wrappers. He handed us the cookies like a cashier gives change to a customer. His hands were constantly occupied with something, anything other than his children. His curled his fingers around the suitcase handles to either side of him as he picked them up and swaggered out the back wood paneled door. I remember dropping the cookie, it shattering inside its clear plastic casing, and running to the living room where she sat in her faded blue floral flannel nightgown. As I tucked myself under her wing, I could feel her heaving sobs in every breath. The dust swirled around his car as he backed out of the dirt driveway. The sunlight poured through the glass door and forced its way through the slits of the curtain in front of the picture window attempting to fill the dark places created that day. It is my first childhood memory. In the comfort of my footed pajamas and matted blond ringlet’s, I was three.