My father told me a story although for him it was true. He told me of a toy, a simple wooden boat. I often asked him these questions about his childhood, the 1970’s, he told me of him and his siblings, my aunties and uncles and what fun they had. What was real over 50 years ago, all forgotten or not at all.
This boat, this wooden boat was the start of a short sibling war. He told me that he and his sister were given two boats at the age of 6 for their hard work moving wooden logs across the farms. Odd; being that, my auntie never did such things. Two tails from an ancient past yielding such different answers.
Fabricate
My father told me that these two wooden boats, identical even, were the rewards for such a job. That same day, that evening, horror struck. One boat vanished from their eyes while playing along the pond. One fought the other over that boat that remains, unclear as to who’s the rightful owner, they fought all night.
Only until the light from the morning rays shun amongst the farms, revealed this truth, this mystery. My father, my auntie ran back down to that one pond, the very pond that started this feud and only saw forgiveness.
The wooden boat wasn’t a good boat, it effortlessly sank to the bottom of the pond in the pitch dark night. Too deep to rescue, so they said their goodbyes.
I asked my auntie for her truth, her story. To my surprise, she claimed “I’ve never had a wooden boat”. But it seemed so real, my father told it as if it truly happened.
How could this be?
What really happened that night?
Who was right?
This must mean that memory can’t be trusted. So remember that.
