I'd like to believe that each of us, as a kid, had a little pixie around. We might not see it or even feel it, but I'd like to think each of us had the company of a magical being during our childhood. That wouldn't mean that everything was perfect, of course. Life can't be perfect. Maybe there were events we had to endure to truly become the better version of ourselves. Having that little pixie around would mean that some kind of invisible protection was there, trying to keep our essence untouched.
I believe I owe it to that idea of something protecting me the fact that, despite the turmoil I lived in, I have happy childhood memories to hold very dearly. And today I'd like to share some of them with you, the ones I cherish the most. I hope to make you laugh, and perhaps tear up a bit, mostly of joy, remembering your own childhood.
This post responds to yet another amazing weekly topic, proposed by Galen for the Weekend Engagement. You can find the original post, containing all the prompts and rules, here. If you're reading this and haven't participated, kindly allow me to encourage you to do so. I promise you'll have fun! And if you've already written your entry, be sure to check other authors' take on the topic. There are a lot of interesting stories out there.
When I was around six, my grandma used to have a crimson Renault 5, her favorite car, and it became mine too, back then. I was a restless toddler, always seeking the next distraction. Sometimes, my grandma would take me with her to run some errands or to just drive around the city. When I think about those moments we shared, just the two of us, I can almost smell the fragrance of her makeup, so distinctive, and the pine-scented refresher she kept on the car.
My pixie was surely watching from a close distance, and whenever my grandma called and I picked up the phone, I could feel the scent of her makeup around me. Even before she spoke, I knew it was time for a drive. And I'd rejoice to the confirmation, run to the bedroom and get dressed as fast as I could. As you can see from the photo below, I had a pretty good (bad) sense of fashion. And I loved it.
As agreed, my grandma would pick me up promptly, a quality she passed onto me. If she said 9 a.m., she was there at 9 a.m. on the dot. My grandma always allowed me to go on the front seat, probably not the most responsible thing to do, and surely did so behind my mom's back. I knew that, and so I felt happy and free, free from restraints and silly rules, every time I jumped in and fastened my seatbelt. I can only compare the feeling to that of riding on a motorbike. Perhaps you can relate.
The first thing I would do on the car was to find the cassettes box, and pick my favorite: a mix of Roxette's songs. There were ballads both in English and Spanish, and even though I didn't understand most of the concepts they talked about, we would sing along at the top of our lungs. I would roll the window down if we were on the highway, and I'd scream the lyrics to the wind. There's a particular song, which I'll link below, that I remember more fondly.
For the first ten years of my life, I was raised as a vegan. My mom would cook all kinds of exotic dishes, with names and flavors I couldn't name. Most of them I liked, some I hated, but was forced to eat them anyway. Sugar was a forbidden substance, except for a very special moment of the day. Every day, from Monday to Friday, right after school, we would go to a bakery three blocks from our apartment, and buy the afternoon snack: Belem pastries.
I remember perfectly the aromas of that place, the tones of cream of the baked goods, and the sound of the Portuguese language mixed with Spanish. I would try to pull my mom's hand so we got faster to the house, almost tasting the vanilla custard already.
When I finally got to seat at the table and enjoy la merienda, I was the happiest kid. Right then, at that moment, I felt loved, special, cared for. Spoiled, even. That memory has stuck with me and has a very strong presence in my everyday life, and I thank my pixie for convincing my mother to buy them for us, the pastéis de nata.
In the first year of primary school, I was a small, fragile, skinny child. I was extremely shy, and almost every interaction occurred only on my mind. I can't seem to be able to recall how, but I managed to make a friend. Gaby. She came from a loving family: a dad, a mom, two older sisters, and her. She was very outgoing, always chasing the next adventure, and she could understand me even without words. Around her, I was happy.
I remember I started going to her house, after school, more and more frequently. I loved every chance I got to get out of my house and breathe. We would plan it ahead, and her dad would pick us both from school. We would have lunch together, her whole family, and me. Sometimes they would pick on me for not eating meat, but I didn't care. I was happy there. After that, we would go to her room and read, or play Monopoly behind the minibar in the living room.
I dreaded the sunset, which signaled the moment of going home. But, more often than never, Gaby's mother would call mine and ask her to let me stay the night. She would say yes, and I would jump with joy all around. I'm sure my pixie had something to do with that. Gaby and I would hug each other and go watch TV, feeling like we had all the time in the world to have fun.
The next morning, we would wake up before anyone else, and tiptoe our way into the kitchen. We would eat spoonfuls of Toddy, and cereal, in front of the TV, watching cartoons. Then, we would play Monopoly again. We loved that board game! She always won. When she and her family moved back to Peru, a year after we became so close, I lost the best friend I've ever had. Still, I hold the memories of the times we spent together very, very close, and they're really happy ones.
These three particular stories I shared with you today are the core memories from my childhood. The happiest ones. There were other happy moments, but these lingered and still permeate my days. Thank you, little pixie, for making sure that I have them. I hope you're still around, and continue to be, even if I can't see you.
Sources of the images in order of appearance:
Me as a child (5 y/o). This image belongs to me.
Me as a child (3 y/o). This image belongs to me.
📷 by Nick Fewings
Me as a child (6 y/o). This image belongs to me.
Gaby and I (8 y/o). This image belongs to me.
I'd like to thank you for reading this. I hope my words resonated with you in some way. If they did, or even if they didn't, I'd like to further connect with you, so I invite you to drop a comment and I'll answer it as soon as I can.
