We All Fall Down

Cherry red and the not-quite-yellow-or-orange color of papaya crosshash the view of my father and his camera, doing nothing to impede the skrish-click sound of him winding the film and snapping a photo. The colorful net looks like it was woven of seatbelts; the straps are wider than my foot, the square spaces between them wide enough for my body but not my diaper, and if I don't keep my feet too close together, both won't fall through the same hole anyway.

Even if I do fall, my dad will catch me. The holes are not why tears burn in my eyes, not why my face is so twisted in that picture.

The straps' hard edges dig into my stubby fingers as I grip the net. This is also not what's making me cry.

At the next plastic ring supporting this net tunnel just above my dad's six-foot-high head, my mom's behind blocks the entire view, her aqua-colored capris brighter than the San Antonio summer sky. That is what fills me with worry.

This playground is not for grownups. She'll make it all fall down. We'll smash dad, and his camera will get broken. Everyone will be mad.

No one understands this. They keep suggesting other things and holding their arms out to me, but that's not what I mean when I say, "Get off."

If I move, everything will fall.

This is my first memory, the bright colors, sharp textures, logic and terrifying conclusion that form this snapshot. I would have no idea where it happened or how old I was except that I saw the picture a few years ago. Apparently I was 8 months old, and we were at Sea World. My mom did not break anything, nor did anyone figure out what my problem was.