Flashbacks

You were eight-years old, getting on the city bus on a warm Miami evening with your Aunt Jean.
Mysterious Aunt Jean, whom you saw so seldom, was taking you, alone, no younger sister to tag along, to see the new Disney movie Cinderella. At night. So grown up. To this day, when you encounter the fumes of exhaust spewing from a bus in the summer’s warmth, you are transported right back to that moment. On the step of the bus going to see Cinderella.

Those blue and white organdy pinafore dresses you and your little sister wore as flower girls to walk down the aisle at your cousin’s wedding.
Your beautiful cousin. She was just 16; dressed in that gown of the palest champagne pink covered with pearls and crystals. She was a real-life princess. Cinderella suddenly alive in front of you.

Playing baseball on the street with the neighborhood kids.
You hit the ball, ran to first base. Someone buzzed the ball, a hardball, to try to get you out. You “caught” it right in the eye. The shiner lasted all summer.

The white Good Humor truck making its way down the street on hot summer days.
Kids pouring out of each house clutching coins from mom. A huge gaggle running after the chiming bells to see who would be the first in line to get the delicious, frozen treat.

Running and jumping through the sprinkler set up on the lawn.
Your toes tickled by the blades of soft, green grass. The cooling drops raining down. The sunlight sparkling everywhere. The screams of delight.

The piano recital.
You were terrified. You had practiced for weeks. Memorized every note. Mr. Brierley said you were ready. Seated at the piano, you started the piece, then got stuck. Oh, horror… you had to start over again. You burned with humiliation and walked away with a forever fear of audiences.

That kiss from the first boy who really mattered.
Bells chimed; angels sang. Oh… so that is love, you thought.

Walking the Wissahickon Trail.
The lush green trees forming a canopy overhead. The gurgling creek winding its way alongside. Almost impossible to keep the kids from sliding down the embankment to explore the creek side or the creek itself. The pungent aroma of horse dung from the regal steeds that riders rode so proudly. Right there alongside the walkers and runners and bikers and dogs. It was a world unto itself.

That day at the adoption agency.
You were so nervous. They brought out this tiny baby, so beautiful. She’s so small, you uttered, as if you were afraid to take hold of her. You did, and the adventure began.

Your daughter asked you to be present at the birth of her baby.
You gasped contemplating the honor and the responsibility. The day came; and when that beautiful baby girl emerged, you yelped in awe: Oh Lauren, look what you did! She looks just like you. And she still does.

Taking a walk with your grandson.
So grown up, like a man- child. Fifteen years old. He shares the audio he is listening to: Malcolm Gladwell. We walk. We listen. The child expanding the world of his Mima.

The flight you took way back when passengers actually looked at one another and chatted.
You struck up a conversation with the gentleman seated next to you. It didn’t take long to realize that you two on that same flight were also tuned to a similar wavelength. You both laughed all the way to Boston. Two strangers with a unique connection. All that laughter cleansing the soul.

It must have been some special occasion; you were seated at that fancy French restaurant, just starting dinner.
A very pregnant woman came up to your table. She placed her hand on her belly and said: If it weren’t for you, this baby wouldn’t be here. She and her husband had both been identified as carriers of the Tay-Sachs gene at the genetic testing program you had helped create. They underwent prenatal diagnosis; they were assured they were carrying a healthy child. Hope restored. You stood hugging one another. She cried. You cried.