Earliest Memory

The first memory that I can conjure up, without the help of external associations, occurred when I was three years old. The memory is incomplete, undoubtedly due to the fact that at that point in my life that which was not visually stimulating was deemed unimportant and therefore lost somewhere in the abyss of time. I remember being one of a number of people sitting in a rather small room, and I am sitting on my father's lap. My grandfather, much less gray than he is now, is garbed in a black suite, by no means his usual attire, and is sitting facing the rest of the group. He is the only one speaking, the exact words I no longer recall, ad the rest of the room is silent except for the intermittent sniffles and and the rustling of cloths as hands wipe tears from people's eyes. I remember an elderly lady, not someone that I recognise, laying in a large shiny box next to my grandfather. She is completely still and seems unaware of, or at least unaffected by, that which is going on around her. This woman has grey curled hair, and I was quite enthralled by the bright colored flowers decorating her white flowing dress. The next thing that I remember is an empty, well lit, and blindingly white hallway. I was aggravated and fighting to free myself from the grasp of my father's hands. I wanted to run and break through the barrier of silence back into the normal world. A world full of interesting things, different noises, and a world full of smiles and unwavering attention on me. It was then that my gaze fell upon a drinking fountain. Not one like you would find in a school, but one similar to those placed in the lobbies of psychiatrists or lawyers. One with two different knobs, red and blue, and a huge tank of water resting at the very top. That very drinking fountain is the last thing I remember from that time.

A few years ago I asked my father about it, unsure weather such an event was simply a figment of my imagination, perhaps originating from a dream, or an actual occurrence. He was taken aback by the fact that I remembered that day and told me that it had been the funeral of his great grandmother. His father, previously a priest, had in fact lead the service and it was his mother who had died. It is funny what we remember. I had no connection to this lady, except through blood, but I remember her funeral. I barely even remember the funeral of my great grandfather who died years and years later. What is it that keeps some memories so vivid in our minds and makes some lost forever? I don't know...but it is interesting...