Someone recently asked me what my favourite childhood memory was. I had a happy and sad childhood and both my parents were good to me and though they were apart, I felt loved. I had and have great friends of that time and great teachers and coaches and a great brother. But my first thought was of pain.
My first thought was of Mister Murray. I broke my right arm in a skating race, against the boards, on soft ice. He drove me to the hospital, in great pain. My mother beside me in the back seat. It was an old Volvo with depleted shocks and on the February streets we seemed to hit every bump in the road.
I screeched and cried and winced, as an eleven year old. And with each emotion I admitted, I saw it amplified in my mother’s face and heard it cry out in my mother’s voice.
When I returned home, casted and safe, and saw her relief, I felt good for both myself and her. That might be my favourite childhood memory. As dark as it may have been. But it was the light at the end of the darkness that brings it home.