Fuzzy first memory

When I try to conjure my very first memory, it tends to bring forth the thought of arriving somewhere in my dad's brown Camaro, climbing from my seat and Dad opening the door for me. It was dark, and we were parked near a cinderblock wall, painted in a light color. A yellow stream of light shone down from a bug-filled fixture attached to the wall.

All my life, I imagined this moment as the first time I went to the hospital to meet my baby brother. However, now that I am an adult, it doesn't seem logical that we would visit the hospital when it was dark outside. Perhaps we were going to the bowling alley? Or perhaps it was a vivid dream.

On the other hand, I do have a very clear memory from when I was pretty little, which I have no doubt was real. Dad and I were sitting on the old sofa in the living room of what was home until I turned seven. There were other people in the room, conversing, not that I was paying any attention to them. My imagination was running, as it usually was. I scooted over close to my dad and pulled his arm into my lap. It was tan, warm, and coated in soft, dark hair. I cradled his arm and rocked it because, in my mind, it was a baby - a warm, sweet, alive baby of my own. I vaguely remember trying to tell Daddy about my game of pretend. I don't remember any particular response, but I guarantee he was not surprised by my ridiculous imagination.