Mine was in Brooklyn, New York in the early 80s.
I was about two-and-a-half to three years old. We just arrived to the States from Haiti. It was our first hot summer in NYC and we lived in a basement apartment with my grandfather and great grandmother, who wasn’t the nicest woman, especially to my mom. My mom was in her early twenties, scared I’m guessing, no job, and no idea how things would turn out for us. My dad was always working so we barely saw him.
What felt like every morning, my mom would sit out back (in this concrete garden where flowers never grew) and cry. I used to pull her face into mine, dry her tears, and kiss her all the time just to stop her from crying.
Years later, things are way better, but I guess I’ve never really forgotten those moments in the garden or the tears rolling down my mom’s face. Now that I’m a mom, I constantly worry about what my son’s first memories will be of me. So, I make it a point to smile a lot and protect the space my family is in so hopefully he has better early memories than I did.