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.