It has nothing to do with popularity either. Some of them are super long, while others just take a few minutes to read. The pattern has nothing to do with length. It took me a while to realize this, but after creating ~50 illustrated posts on this site, I began noticing a pattern throughout them all. My name is Lawrence, and I’m a storyteller. It was the first time I read a story that profoundly moved me. My earliest childhood memory was scary at first, but through reading my mom’s words, it ended quite peacefully.Ĭome to think of it, at the young age of five, I experienced something quite incredible: That short narrative arc was all I needed to calm me down. If I was ever worried that she wouldn’t return, there was no need to be. She wanted me to know that she only left me alone because I was in a peaceful state, and that of course she’d back because she loves me so much. Whether she realized it or not, she was conveying a story on that Post-It for me. I guess this whole thing was bound to happen. But maybe she thought I would’ve rolled around while sleeping and removed it in the process. 1 Come to think about it, she probably should have just slapped the Post-It on my forehead instead of the wall. She knew that those words would bring comfort and solace if I were ever in a state of fear. On it was a message my mom knew I needed to read if I woke up while she was gone. I didn’t realize it then, but it’s amazing to know how much power that little Post-It note had. I wasn’t going to be abandoned after all. But after reading a few words on a tiny sheet of paper, I now had the peace of a seasoned monk. Just like that, everything made sense, and the world was okay.Ī minute ago, I was an uncontrollable, sobbing maniac. The Post-It note said something to this effect:Īs I read those words, I sat there, utterly dumbfounded.
It turned out this yellow thing was a square, and this square had some handwriting on it. I couldn’t quite tell what it was because my eyes were clogged up with sadness aqua, so I had to clear the eye ducts to see a bit clearer. It was a glimmer of yellow coming from the wall that was adjacent to my bed. I pounded my mattress, made Chewbacca noises, and writhed around like a snake that couldn’t decide where to go.Īs the bawling continued, I briefly caught something in the corner of my eye. My tears mixed with nose mucus as this stream headed toward my mouth, making this experience even shittier. With that final question, I let out the biggest sob ever recorded in toddler history. Not even my younger brother.Īs this realization detonated in my brain, I slowly made my way back up to my bed. With each room and space I entered, I would seep out a whimpering call for mom, with each one becoming more hopeless than the last:Īfter hitting up every room, it started dawning on me that mom wasn’t here. Sometimes I’d have to call for her a few times, but never more than ten.īut on this day, I hit well over that number, and mom was still nowhere to be seen.Īt that point, I got my ass out of bed, and ventured out to the other parts of the house. Historically in my past 5 years of existence, calling for her with a sniffly tone meant that I would see her relatively soon. Since I was a child with many needs, the first thing I did was ask for my mom. I was about 5 years old, and it started with me waking up from an afternoon nap. My earliest childhood memory was stressful.
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