I don’t remember the details of this whole ordeal very well but the
message is hauntingly clear still. I think I was six years old but I can’t
remember my exact age. In fact, I cannot for the life of me give an exact age
for any of my memories before the age of nine. Still, six years old is a rather
young age for someone to develop insecurities in a taxi cab.
It was spring time, that much I remember. I was attending my first
Catholic school Sor Rosa Larrabure for first grade. It was part school and part
convent with pale pink walls and open spaces usually populated by girls in plain
grey skirts, pressed white blouses, and blue sweater vests. I liked that
school. And the administrators liked me too. They said I was very mature and
intelligent for a six year old. Talk about high expectations. My mother had
picked me up from school that day which she didn’t do often because she had to
work. She was wearing heels so she decided it was best to take a taxi instead
of the usual bus. That’s all I remember about that day. I don’t even remember
my mother hailing the cab.
I’ve been trying for years to remember the conversation my mother had
with the taxi cab driver. I can’t recall that or anything that I did during the
trip. Such a significant event and my childish mind only retained unnecessary
details. And here I thought good memory was part of intelligence. I guess some
things are best left forgotten.
The cab ride must have been twenty minutes long at the most. My mother’s
apartment was not very far from school. We lived in Pueblo Libre a city suburb
town close to a military facility. It used to be a nice place to live but over
the years it filled with gangs and hungry people. I remember arriving at the
apartment complex and almost getting off the cab before my mother stopped me.
“You don’t want to talk to him?”
“Why?”
“You don’t remember who he is?”
I shook my head.
“He’s your father.”
That is my first memory of him. The one that did most of the damage. I
stayed in the car for a few moments asking him questions I can’t recall. I do
remember asking him why he didn’t come visit me. He said he was sorry for not
doing it more often but he had to work. His answer followed an empty promise
any six year old would hold on to. “I promise I’ll come visit soon” he says.
