The Most Vivid Memory of My Childhood.

The Year:
•1996, four years of age.

The Setting:
•a blisteringly hot, sticky midsummer day.
•the backseat of my godmother's old Lincoln

The Purpose:
•a trip to K-Mart

It was mid-July, and I could not have been more care free if I tried. My days typically consisted of playing soccer with family friends and strolling throughout the dangerous ghetto of Winona without worrying that I wasn't "keeping it real in the streetz," because there was no doubt that I was. No one on the block had a trike quite like mine, but that's neither here nor there. Then, one especially warm morning, my godmother, Mira Zrakic, came to our house. This woman loved me and took care of me as if I was her own offspring. I can't count the number of days spent at her house, under her supervision, eating her delicious meals, and being showered with her numerous gifts. This day, however, was different. This day would eventually become the source of my most vivid childhood memory.

My mother interrupted my play to tell me that I was going somewhere with my godmother. I stopped what I was doing just as her huge, gray, Lincoln rolled into our driveway. It was a particularly busy day, and our fruit stand was populated with customers looking to satisfy their hungers and their daily requirements of fruits and vegetables. My godmother stepped out of the car, and I ran to her ecstatically, and gave her the largest hug of my career as an infant. I was waiting in the back seat of the Lincoln as her and my mother conversed, most likely exchanging recipés. I looked around, and to this day I remember the sights, smells and feelings of that moment: my mother, with her now-shorter-and-grayer long black hair; my neighbour's children flying a pink and yellow kite across the street; and a man carrying a box of tomatoes from our fruit stand to the trunk of his small red car. I remember the hot feel of vinyl to my skin on the inside of the Lincoln, and how small my body appeared in my eyes in her spacious back seat. I remember what was said to me when my godmother sat in the driver's seat: "Dudu, we're going to K-Mart." At four years old, K-Mart, to me, was the Mercedes of toy stores. It was like entering a new world, one with high shelves and an endless supply of the latest toys and must-have commodities. I remember running into K-Mart with my godmother walking behind me. I remember seeing the toy that changed my childhood. A large, purple and green plush toy, that went by the name of Barney. I had that toy for years, and loved it wholeheartedly until the day my mother gave it away to a less fortunate child. The day I acquired Barney was one of the happiest days of my life and the one that I, unflinchingly, am able to recall every detail of.