“The memory comes to me often, mostly at night, but more often during the day now, surprising me. It is a very early memory. Not as early as the artist, Salvador Dali, my sister Sola tells me. He could remember when he was inside his mother, Sola says, where the world looked flat, like squashed egg. But this is my memory: Maeve and Jack have just brought baby Edward home from the hospital. Maeve and Jack are our parents, but we don’t call them Mom and Dad, except for Edward, who when he learns t...o talk will speak to them in a formal manner, a bit English. “Motha and Fatha,” he will say in his little tin voice. Here’s the scene: Maeve and Jack walk in the front door, Maeve carrying baby Edward in his green blanket, packed tightly like a pickle in plastic. I am only three years old, but I can tell from their faces that Maeve and Jack want us to love Edward. They look a little happy, but not too happy; a little fearful as if they are adding an unwanted puppy to our large litter. Sola, the oldest, is used to this.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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