January 1. The earliest memory

It plays out like a clip from the old home videos, the kind that jump across a projector screen, but someone forgot to remove the lens cap, so everything is black.  Not a frightening black, but dark like you haven't opened your eyes yet and you can hear your children excitedly talking to dad in the kitchen on Saturday morning, while he makes bacon and brewing fresh coffee for you.  It's familiar and warm.

What I feel in those deep corners of my recollection, the same way muscle memory moves fingers over piano keys is each step of the old stairs descending into the basement. My favorite dress is swishing with as I go. I knew that it is red. From the bottom of the stairs I hear my brother Josh calling out and the theme music playing on the television. It's Zorro and his trusty horse, I don't remember his name. Our favorite show. 

The stairs feel like a long journey for my small legs, but I am so excited.  I am coming, wait for me. It's my birthday, my third birthday.

This is what remains in the earliest pages, but it's faded. There is no color or contrasting shapes, only sounds and the motion.  The volume of music growing louder. My brother's voice. Happiness. 

Sometimes I wonder if this memory is real. Can a three year old trully remember details? Have I tied together snippets, telling the story so many times that it became true? We will never know, but if I can travel back, all the way to the foggy beginning and find happiness, I will leave it there.