No Memories Before Him

In the memory, I am on a motorbike. I had been in Uganda for three months, and I quickly learned my way around the small town I would call home for the next two years. It is the rainy season, so the breeze against my face as we ride is cool and misty. The red clay beneath the tires is damp and slippery. I feel the bike skid a few times when we round corners and avoid deep potholes, which are filled with water from the storm the night before. The driver is wearing a heavy parka and a navy blue beanie. Even in the rainy season it is 75 degrees outside, but you wouldn’t know by looking at the thick jackets the Ugandans wear.

I am gripping the bike with my thighs and holding on to my bag in front of me with both hands. We arrive at the cafe, and I hand the man 2000 shillings, which is less than an American dollar. I say, “Weble, sebo,” and he nods and drives away. I walk into the cafe, and that is it. That is the memory. 

After having my baby, I spent six weeks or so grieving this memory. As I held my baby to my breast in the beige, already stained recliner in the corner of the nursery, I clung to this memory in desperation. I wanted to recall it, and at the same time I hated to recall it. 

I missed her. I missed this girl on the motorbike, with red clay spread out all around her and the breeze running its fingers through her hair. I missed this girl who would sit cross legged by the Nile tearing apart sticky jackfruit, then washing her hands in oil to remove the sap. I missed this girl who got a little too tipsy one time and did a backflip from a rope swing into the river at sunset. I missed this girl who felt so free. 

After putting him in his crib for the night, knowing I would see him again in one to three hours, I went and cried in the shower. I recalled this memory, hoping to say hello to this girl I missed so badly. But something was wrong. 

The memory was the same. The same bike, the same man, the same red clay under the tires. The same breeze, the same restaurant, the same yellow-orange paper passed from my hand to his. The same goodbye. Everything was exactly the same, but the feeling was different. 

I put my head under the hot water and rubbed my eyes, and once again recalled the memory.

I am on a motorbike. It is the rainy season, so the breeze against my face as we ride is cool and misty. The red clay beneath the tires is damp and slippery. The potholes are filled with water from the storm the night before. The driver is wearing a heavy parka and a navy blue beanie. I am gripping the bike with my thighs and holding on to my bag in front of me with both hands. My bag. My bag. I feel panicked. My hands are holding my bag. 

Why are my hands holding my bag? Where is he? 

I tell the driver to turn left, and he looks confused.

“Turn left!” I shout. I don’t know why I am yelling for him to turn left, but I do, and he listens. The bike slips a little, and I grip my bag tighter. My bag. Where is he?

What I am looking for isn’t on this street, so the driver turns right and then left and we end up driving all around town. The paper I hand him at the end of the memory is not yellow-orange. It is blue, and he is so happy. 

I open my eyes. 

What the hell was that? I thought. 

The shower became cold so I stepped out and wrapped myself in a towel. I put on a soft pajama top with what looked like an oil stain across the front, because apparently my baby’s spit up stains clothing. I no longer needed to wear diapers so I put on my underwear and crawled under the covers. 

My eyes rested for about fifteen minutes before I heard the cry through the walls. He sounded like a baby eagle. I groaned and rolled out of bed. I walked into the nursery and turned on the nightlight. I unswaddled him and lifted his warm body from the crib. I held him close against my chest and sat in the recliner. My body breathed. 

I realized what had happened in the shower, to the memory, why that girl who used to feel so free felt so panicked. 

I have no memories before him. Of course, I do, but they feel wrong. They feel disturbed. Like watching your favorite movie and all of a sudden the main character is no longer there. I spent six weeks or so grieving that memory because I missed that girl. I compared myself to myself in a different season. But now, even the happiest memory has an undertone of grief because he isn’t in it. That girl felt panicked because the greatest thing in her life wasn’t there.

There are days still when I miss her so desperately, when I would so much rather be swimming in the Nile with friends and pointing out monkeys leaping from tree to tree than changing diapers and falling asleep while breastfeeding in the dark. But most of the time I don’t miss her at all. Now, when I recall all the incredible memories I have, I’m able to say hello to that girl and blow her a kiss and thank her for her time. I smile, and maybe I cry, and I wave goodbye.

It is bizarre and scary and confusing, and I love it. Because I have something so special that even my happiest memories feel a little off because he isn’t in them.