Lacey Mercer is 40 years old and lives in Buckeye, Arizona.
My First Memory
It was my first memory. I am sure I’ve had many more before it, but this is the first one I can recall. This memory shines vividly in my mind and it was of him. I was about 4 or 5 years old in my Grandma’s backyard. I always went to stay with my grandma in the summer. She had an amazing house – the kind you see when you’re driving and turn to the person next to you and say, “Wow, it would be nice to live there!” It was white, two-stories, with a wrap-around porch, and balcony on the second floor. It was a farmhouse and although looked picturesque from the road, up close, you could see the small imperfections and wear left by many generations of use and love. My family didn’t have money, but they had that house. My grandmother used to tell me, “Someday this house will be yours, and you will raise your family here.” I would smile and run through the halls, into the backyard playing and laughing like any child, not knowing how precious those moments really were.
The backyard was big, with flowers lining the house and a large oak tree on the side. In my memory was swinging on a tire swing that hung from the oak tree, being pushed by Ethan Myers. He was one year older than I was and tall for his age. He lived a few houses away and would walk the quarter mile down the dirt road almost every day to play. Ethan lived with his mother, father, and three much older brothers. By the time Ethan was born, his parents were done raising children and let him roam free, which was fine with me. I loved playing with Ethan. He was kind and patient. I think his reason for coming over was as much to play, as it was to stay for supper. His family was poor, so going without a meal was a normal occurrence. My Grandmother didn’t mind though. She was the kind of woman that would feed the entire neighborhood if they came over. While Ethan pushed me on the swing, I laughed and yelled, “Higher, higher!” On the back swing, the tire hit the trunk of the large oak tree. The jolt sent me flying. I landed on my shoulder and could feel the tears starting to come. Ethan was instantly by my side, “Beth, are you okay, are you okay?”
I winced in pain, “My shoulder.” I reached up clutching it tightly as the tears began to leave my eyes. Ethan pushed my sleeve up to examine the damage. There was no blood, but it was a little red. The next thing he did is what is burned into my memory – He gently brought his face down, closed his eyes, and softly kissed my shoulder. He pulled his head up and looked at me wiping away one of my tears, “Is that better?” His words asked with the innocence only a child could have. I nodded, and it was better. I should have known then to hold on to him tightly, to not let him slip through my fingers as life can do to us with so many people we hold dear.
Years later, here I stand; an old woman looking over over Ethan’s grave not knowing him past my childhood. My life was my own fault, a string of unfortunate decisions only compounded by the one not to choose him. I stand here feeling sorry for myself, sorry for the life that could have been, and all the missed happiness that my mind wonders with. The scenarios built up in my head about the life I could have had with him, but that was not the path I chose. In our youth, we do not recognize how the smallest decision we make on a whim can shape the outcome of our short time. How some people who could bring us so much happiness are put in our path and we let them float away like bubbles in the air. So here I stand, remembering my first memory, and at my age, I am sure very close to my last one. Now I realize that true regret is not something you can fix; it is something you hold onto. It feels like a hollow place in your chest, constantly reminding you of the wasted years and the foolish choices made in the arrogance of youth.