One of my earliest memoirs is being carried into (what I assume was) the 72nd police precinct in Brooklyn by my dad and faces of joy approaching me. That’s it. That’s all I remember. It’s not much but I look on it fondly, a positive memory of being loved and cared for.
Another distant but distinct memory is waking up early in the morning and climbing into my parent’s bed, squirming as I fought to squeeze in between both of them. The feeling cannot be completely described but there was a sense of complete security, total protection from the outside world, enveloped in a cocoon of unconditional love. No words could convey the kind of love I felt in that moment. Both of them were always half asleep and possibly irritated by my presence, but if that were the case they never showed it. It was an upspoken love which existed without action or words. Something in my mind as real as the bed I was in. You can’t describe it. You can only experience it. An experience that was sure to ground me later in life.