My first memory is of the day my Dad moved out of our family’s Brooklyn apartment.
There are others – flashes – from life before that, but they’re not as vivid or dramatic.
Mom was bawling. Dad was brushing her aside, grabbing his bags and trying not to prolong the inevitable.
Then Mom and I stood in the window facing the street of our third floor Brooklyn walk-up and watched as Dad walked down the stoop, out the gate and down the street with the last of his bags slung over his shoulder.
Mom – still bawling – was now holding me, crying on my shoulder. I would’ve thought he – or the rest of the neighborhood – could’ve heard her.
I don’t remember Dad ever turning around or even pausing. I just remember watching the back of his head – his jet black hair – from above as he walked down the street, changing our lives forever.
I was four.
