Art on an Island

I have a few memories that I think I’ve stolen. I can’t quite remember if they are mine, in my actual memory, a dream, or a story I’ve heard from my cousins. A couple of them are haunting, and I feel just the memory of the memory is enough to have shaped my life in some way. When I recall them, no more details ever come to mind. In fact, details get lost or added from different ones. So now, I have a fragmented ‘may be my memory’ to share: My sisters, cousins, and I were at a huge Black (family name) reunion. It was at some weird, seemingly deserted, campground with cabins and one of those monkey bar domes in the middle to play on. I was wearing purple spandex shorts. We played tag or hide-and-go seek and my sister was separated from me. I remember being tiny. I remember the frantic lost feeling. I remember thinking I saw someone jump in to one of the cabins so I followed. I walked on the creaky thick planked wooden floor to the corner of the dusty cabin where there was a bed with too many quilts on it. There was the distinct shape of a body under those quilts and I walked closer. It was an old lady and she popped up and began yelling at me. That’s all I can grasp, but I know whatever happened after that was never re-told to my parents, making me think I was in my older sister’s charge and she didn’t want to get in trouble. It always felt like a secret. I think this was one of my first memories.