There was a lot of uncertainty connected to my father when I was a child.
Not necessarily drama.
Uncertainty.
Would he come?
Would he not?
Would the plan actually happen?
Until I was about thirteen, Dad would sometimes take me shopping in Trieste.
For me, those trips were enormous events.
I needed ordinary things — exercise books, school supplies, clothes, shoes — but Trieste had things we could not find at home. Beautiful stationery. Clothes that looked different. Shoes. Sweets. Chewing gum.
I loved all of it.
But mostly, I loved going with him.
I adored my father then.
If I knew we were supposed to go to Trieste the following day, the excitement started long before he arrived.
I would think about it all day.
Tomorrow Dad is coming.
Tomorrow we are going somewhere together.
There was one complication.
I could never be completely certain that he would actually appear.
We had no telephone
Today, if someone is late, you send a message.
Where are you?
Are you coming?
How long will you be?
We could not do that.
We did not have a telephone at home.
If Dad said he was coming, there was nothing to do except wait.
No call to say he was running late.
No message saying the plan had changed.
No way to find out whether he was twenty minutes away or whether he was not coming at all.
There was only waiting.
And when you adore someone, waiting is not neutral.
You have already built the day around their arrival.
You have imagined what you will do.
You are excited before anything has even happened.
Sometimes Dad came.
Sometimes he did not.
And until enough time had passed for me to understand that he was not coming, I kept hoping.
When he did not appear, I was terribly disappointed.
Sad.
Then the next time he said he would come, I became excited all over again.
I did not decide to expect less.
I wanted him to come.
So I waited.
The clothes
When he did arrive, everything changed.
We went to Trieste and the day became special.
I loved clothes as a child.
I still do.
For years, I simply thought that was part of me. Some people remember music. Some remember food. Apparently, I remember clothes.
And I remember them absurdly well.
Pink checked trousers crossed with fine blue lines.
A pink blouse that fastened at the side, almost like a chef’s jacket.
Black jeans with yellow stitching.
Light brown boots.
Winter tartan culottes.
Purple ankle boots I chose myself.
A white mohair top.
A long blue knitted top, almost a minidress, with a tiger — or something resembling a tiger — on the front.
A pale blue checked blouse threaded with gold.
A black leather belt edged in gold with tigers on it.
Decades later, I can still see them.
I used to think this simply proved that I had an excellent memory for clothes.
Now I think there may be another reason.
Those clothes were connected to Dad.
When we came home
After shopping, I would carefully arrange everything we had bought on Mum’s double bed beside mine.
I looked at the new clothes before I fell asleep.
Then I looked at them again when I woke.
I loved having something new.
Of course I did.
But the clothes also belonged to a day I had spent with my father.
He had come.
We had gone to Trieste.
We had walked around together, chosen things, carried bags and spent hours in each other’s company.
Then the day ended.
Dad left.
The clothes stayed.
Perhaps that is why I remember them so clearly.
They were not only clothes.
They were connected to time with him.
To the excitement before he arrived.
To the relief when he actually did.
The clothes belonged to the days when the uncertainty ended well.
What objects remember
It is strange what memory chooses to keep.
I cannot remember every conversation I had with my father.
I cannot reconstruct every trip.
There are dates I have forgotten completely.
But I can still see a pair of purple boots.
Black jeans with yellow stitching.
A pink blouse.
Perhaps objects sometimes survive in memory because they are carrying something larger than themselves.
For me, clothes became connected with pleasure very early.
But perhaps also with love.
With anticipation.
With being chosen for a day.
With having my father beside me.
That may be why, all these years later, I remember exactly what he bought me.
Somewhere inside those clothes is still the little girl waiting to see whether her father will come.
And on the good days, he did.
I Just Wanted to Be Normal is a memoir about childhood, family, memory and the small things that stay with us long after we understand why.
Sometimes it is a smell.
Sometimes a room.
Sometimes a hand.
And sometimes it is a pair of purple boots.
I Just Wanted to Be Normal is available in Kindle and paperback on Amazon.