I watched my dad plunge into our swimming pool to recover the limp and lifeless body of my two-year-old brother. I was four.
No one knows when Joey exited the house, or how none of us heard the creaking of the screen door. It is a mystery why this tiny boy, who was so very fearful of even his bathwater, edged so close to the unfenced pool. Mom screamed for a neighbor. Dad screamed for me to go to my room–my upstairs bedroom that overlooked the tragic scene below. With my panicked heart beating frantically, I sprinted to the house. Before climbing the stairs, I stopped by the telephone anchored to the wall in our kitchen to call two neighbors. We needed help. At the age of four, I knew by heart the numbers of my neighbors and was able to call to beckon aid to our desperate situation. Knowing those numbers did not save the day, so why did they matter? Knowing those numbers gave me something important to do while Dad started CPR and Mom ran for the EMS driver, who lived across the street. Knowing those numbers brought someone to my rescue as my parents were carted away, under flashing lights with my brother, who would never return.
The tragedy of August 30, 1981 began the memory of my memory.
