The Invisible Shadow, My First Memory

     In class, we were asked to recall our first memory. Not one we remember do to others telling us what had happened, our first true memory.
     Back in the Regan administration, when a gallon of gas set you back $1.13, my parents built a new home. My room was on the second floor, just about as far away from my security blanket--better known as my parents. This house was far larger than our last, it was new, I was young and in an unknown land. My mother and father installed an intercom system, the idea being if we had a problem, or they wanted to get in touch with my brother or me, one would press a button and be able to communicate with the other.
     On one dark and terrifying night, I awoke in a fright. There was a monster of some sort--I believe it was one of the "friendly" monsters from the book Where the Wild Things Are--dancing on the floor below my bed. I was scared, but I knew if I could make it to the foot stool underneath the intercom, press the button and talk, my parents would be there to save the day. So I made my break for it, pulled the covers back, and carefully made my way to the stool. I climbed to the second step, pressed the button and spoke. Nothing happened. I called for my mom, "Mom," yet nothing happened. Once again I pressed the button and called, "MOM." Once again, this time I began crying and screamed it, "MOOOOOOM." I remember this carrying on for some time, until I found my desired response. They had come to save the day.
     It turned out the intercom was not even on, but they heard me screaming and crying. They found me standing on my footstool, still pressing the button and crying into the lifeless intercom. A sad situation for me, but it has gotten many laughs over the years.

     In my telling of this story, I am doing my best to trace out the invisible shadow of my mind. However, is it truly the story as I remember it, or just what my mind is now believing after hearing the versions told to me over the years. I do not know. It is something I remember, but then again, how much of it is my memory. I would bet that although some of it is from my memory of the actual event, other parts are filled in by the stories over the years. These stories, however partially modified, now make up the story as the truth.