The memory starts in a pink haze, my grandfather takes me by the hand trough a big dark wooden door. I’m in the radio building to visit my mother. We pass a marble counter on the left and go up a huge spiral staircase on the right. At the top of the stairs are the studios, we turn left and enter one of them. My mother is inside, working, I run to her. The memory fades as hazy as it came.
My grandfather used to work at the radio station when he was young, and my mother has work there all her life. They both recall many times when my grandfather took me to visit my mother, but they both insist that in all the buildings the radio took over the years none of them had a spiral staircase.Maybe it was just a dream, maybe this memory has been distorted by time and a kids brain, regardless it is still my earliest and most favourite memory.
Memories are magical things, they are fragments not only of our lives but of who we are, and who we were.