CNF- String of Memories

I don’t remember the first house I lived in.  According to dusty photographs tucked away in bookshelves, I spent the first three years of my life in an apartment in the outskirts of Chico.  I remember burying myself under a mound of pillows and blankets on top of our only couch as the Little Mermaid soundtrack buzzed out of a cd player.  Soon, after my brother was born, my family bid adieu to the apartment, choosing to invest in a “real” house inside a gated community.  Within our own home, I remember sliding across hardwood floors in socks with my younger brother.  I remember reliving this moment the following year in our new house until my brother fell facefirst onto the ground, sobbing and clutching his bleeding nose.  Later that year I found myself crouched over a circular table, grinding down crayons into a picture of a clown, and hoping my fellow kindergarteners would notice how the splotches of color remained within the lines.   I remember in the first grade leaning against the handlebars of my bike, creeping forward on my tiptoes as autumn leaves drifted from overhead trees and crunched beneath my feet.  The following year, I remember the crisp scent of fresh paper as I folded over the pages of my first sketchbook, tracing a pencil across the first page in interlocking shapes.  In third grade I laid on our carpet, propping myself up on my elbows as our puppy lathed between my toes with its tongue.  I remember sitting perched on the edge of my seat in fourth grade, skimming over my note cards and mouthing the words to my speech as I awaited a nod from my teacher.  In fifth grade I swabbed the deck and heaved ropes over the side of the Balclutha as ocean water sprayed my face and seagulls squawked overhead.  In sixth grade, I dangled on the side of a rock wall, suspended by a single rope, desperately groping at the face of the rock for a handhold.  I remember in seventh and eighth grade diving into the edge of the pool and focusing on the pull of my arms rather than the pressure in my head caused by my swim cap and goggles.  In ninth grade I stowed my cap and goggles deep inside an old drawer, instead lacing and unlacing the ties of crisp, white running shoes, bounding through different rooms in the house and bouncing on the firm soles.  A year later I double knotted the laces of a new, purple pair of shoes, kneeling over a starting line and coughing at the dust clouds swirling in the air.  Another pair of shoes later and I found myself plopping into my recliner, gazing into the glowing screen of my computer and resting my head against my fist as I reflected on my first memory.