No matter how hard I try to remember anything bad, my childhood was simply too perfect. I spent hundreds of hours thinking back to the time when I didn’t understand the world – and still, whatever I try to think of, every image and scene that I remember was always perfect.
Sure, my ‘parents’ were weird, but they never hurt me. My dad was overprotective and never even allowed me to play in the kitchen, but I can’t think of any other signs that my child’s mind could have seen. I can’t remember any screams or loud fights or slamming doors; among each other dad and Eliza never had any conflicts.
I hate those memories of the three of us sitting jointly at the dinner table with mom’s freshly cooked food right between us. I remember how ungrateful I was; how I gulped the food down without knowing how much my mother suffered to make it. Sometimes I even complained about the food and then Eliza went back to the kitchen and, a long time later, returned with a completely new meal.
I hate remembering the joy I felt on our camping trips to remote woods. Dad drove the caravan and Eliza sat to him while I slept in the back of the caravan. Even on those trips, while dad drove and I was falling asleep in the back of the caravan, I still had my lullabies. All the food and trips and holidays and TV nights and game nights and stargazing nights, all those were enjoyable, but even when I was small I knew that none of those acts compared to the wonder of a lullaby, hummed from a mother’s heart to the ears of her son. Continue reading