It was getting dark and I was getting hungry but I was afraid to leave my hiding place and go home. I was about six years old, back at a time when a parent could leave their child in the backyard to play without worrying about them. At the time, we lived in an apartment building that had a small yard that backed up to an alley. The day before a neighbor lady walked by as I was playing and asked me how my mom was. For some strange reason, I started making up a story, telling the neighbor that my mom had just had a baby and was doing fine. She had not seen my mom for some time so my story was plausible although she looked surprised.
The next day while playing outside I saw the same woman, walk up to our door carrying a cake. I knew it had something to do with my mom and the fictional new baby. I quickly jumped into some shrubs and waited for her to leave. After she was long gone I was still too afraid to come out from hiding and face my punishment. I finally came out but I don’t recall the punishment that I received. I do remember seeing a small grin on my mother’s face that she was clearly trying to suppress. This is my first memory of being a storyteller. Now, as a photographer and a filmmaker, I’m a storyteller by profession.
Everybody has a story. What’s yours?
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