I was tiny, maybe about two or three years old at most, carrying some plates to set on the table that Oma had given me. Her instructions were stern as usual, and I was scared to take them to the dining room. I walked real slow and carefully so as not to drop them.
It was my aunt’s apartment in Berlin, Germany, when it was still called “West Berlin.” It featured a large open living room and dining room. She and her husband’s veterinary practice was just beyond the double doors beside the dining area.
I remember my dress was a blue crushed velvet, with shiny buttons down the front. My white stockings are tucked into shiny black patent leather shoes with a strap across them. Even the details of the kitchen and all the other rooms are vivid in my mind. When my father was stationed in Berlin, I remember spending much time there when I was younger. It wasn’t always a happy place because my grandmother was strict. My mother and her sister also didn’t get along well; the tension was palpable.
Perhaps there are more memories yet to surface. It may explain why I’ve always felt like life didn’t start well.
I Write Her 