In my earliest memory, my three or maybe four-year-old-self sits on the cement steps of my first home in a shimmery dress, the color of forget-me-nots. Grownups shuffle around me on this beautiful, California morning. 

It’s moving day. There must be a box truck somewhere, but it’s not parked in the half-moon drive where a sagging volleyball net awaits players. Perhaps it’s on the other side of the cinderblock wall, a traffic shield from ever-widening roads. I’m not yet old enough to understand the word bankruptcy, so this journey feels like an adventure.

I can’t picture most of who is there, but my six-year-old cousin sits next to me with his bowl cut and JC Penny clothes. The image is frail like dandelions before the wind. He’s there and not there. My father, however, is sharp, clear. He is still young, all smiles and jokes. He wears brown corduroy pants and a plain white t-shirt, a pack of More cigarettes tucked into the front pocket. His long hair reaches his collar, but his thick, brown mustache is missing which feels strange but right. I can’t picture him without it except in old photographs and this memory. 

The adults gather to play volleyball, and my father sets a beer next to me, the brown bottle sweating in the heat.

“Don’t let that get knocked over,” he says.

I ask him for a sip, or perhaps my cousin does. My father laughs. 

He turns away. I am forgotten.

The cold bottle feels cool against my lips as I take the tiniest drink. It tastes like old bathwater mixed with pee, and I force myself to swallow. I pass the beer to my cousin, and we take turns taking sips. I can’t force myself to drink anymore, but I can pretend, so I do.

I am big.

When the game ends, my dad returns to retrieve his beer, and my heart lifts. He picks up the bottle and holds it to the sunlight. Dark liquid swirls in the bottom, half empty. I am shocked, and so is he. What’s next? Maybe a spanking. One that leaves angry red tattoos behind.

My heart drops.

Here, the memory freezes. I don’t know what happens next. I still wonder if he was mad at himself for letting his baby girl take a sip or mad that his child had come between him and his liquor.