First Memories 67/68

My first memories are conflicting and I’m not sure if one of them was imposed after looking at a photograph so long and so often it wore thin, like the memory.

Memory number one is in black and white, of me in my dad’s arms holding a sugar cube out to a pony.

Memory number two is bright and painful, the feeling of a belt on the back of my legs and my dad’s words coming out in a snarl, “I wouldn’t be stuck here if it wasn’t for you.”

I know the one I prefer.

I know the truth.