What is your strongest memory?

Hello you. Here is a new nonfiction prompt I got from one of my books. I gave myself a good half an hour for this prompt.

Prompt: My strongest memory.

My strongest memory is a split between two very different situations. The first memory is of the night my brother came into my work and told me that my parents had been in an accident. While that was by far the most impactful memory of my past to date, I honestly find it hard to recall a lot of the details. Or I choose not to. Either way, I did not feel this was the strongest answer for the prompt, but I wanted to share it for comparison’s sake, because I find the memory that I see most often in my head, that has affected me the longest, and is the strongest in my mind, to be quite different.

I was young, maybe nine. My mom ran a daycare for preschoolers and some special needs kids and my brother and I spent the days with her. The program was very interactive and the kids were always doing one activity or another. It was the most seamless mix of fun and learning I had ever seen at my tender age. My mom really cared about those kids. She spent what little money we had on supplies for them all. Anyway, it was a nice setup and the kids responded positively to everything. Except for me.

Anyway, one morning I was joining some of the younger kids for marker coloring, something I prided myself in then, and I was almost finished with a new masterpiece of Aladdin and Abu, both with their hands on their hips and looking ready for adventure. The only thing missing was the red for Abu’s hat and tiny vest, so I got out of my plastic green chair and made my way to the art depot, a basket in one of the cupboards, retrieved my fat red marker, and made my way back to my seat. To my horror, one of the younger kids, some booger-eating striped-shirt-wearing punk usurped my seat and ruined my art.

But I was sly and cautious not to react too quickly. My mother was watching us of course, but she could not watch us all. I waited until she rushed over to Ronny, who insisted on eating the glue sticks, and I made my move.

I put my hand on the invader’s shoulder. “Hey, nice picture,” I said. I saw my beautiful fills and outlines besmirched with yellow and purple scribbles. I clenched my teeth. The boy turned his head dully and smiled at me. I was enraged. I had to think quick, how to make my revenge swift and fitting, without indicating myself directly. I spied how: a basket of crayons, sitting in the middle of the table, just inches out of reach.

“Hey,” I said tapping the boys shoulder again. “Can you hand me those crayons?” The boy looked at me for a moment, then stood and leaned over to retrieve the crayons. As he did, I made my move, and pulled the plastic seat that was rightfully mine away from the table and walked away smoothly.

When the boy went to sit back down with the crayons in hand, he sat on air, and then crashed to the floor in disbelief. His cries were small like a babies and the moment the incident had happened, I regretted it wholly. My mother rushed over, kids gathered around, some of the meaner ones laughed. I just stood where I was with my hands in my pockets, wide eyed and horribly ashamed at what I had done.

Thank you for reading!








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