I Was Born

The story of me

I was born.

Of that I am fairly certain. Beyond that I have to rely on my faulty memory, stories told from people who may or may not have been there, and I fill in the rest with imagination. So you’ll have to forgive me if I get some things wrong.

I was born. The city was Los Angeles. The time of day was morning. The hospital is one your step-mother has seen countless times on her favorite soap opera in the 80s. I was in that hospital for six weeks, or three months depending on who I believe. I was born prematurely thanks to an errant ball chased by a child in front of my Uncle Charlie’s car with my mother in the passenger seat returning from a third trimester check up. He slammed on the breaks and the inertia slammed my mother into her seat-belt and caused me to deuce out several weeks before I was done cooking.

Uncle Charlie turned the car around and took mom right back. I’m guessing I didn’t cry out when I popped out. Hard to scream with collapsed lungs. I was told I was put in an…