All bleak, black darkness. An occasional thump, though not yet known to me as a ‘thump’ or even a sound, rather just a deeper texture, perceptible only for lack of a similar sensation in an intoxicating warm dark. Liquid before ‘liquid’, dusk before ‘dusk’—this is the way it begins for us all.
Organ music weekly, probably: my uncle played on Sunday mornings. I wonder what I thought of Hammond’s ominous drone back then. Sounds, sensations most primary, were holy even before I tried-to-try- to grasp the concept; some things remain the same.
I knew not that even in my most comfortable state of oblivion I was in imminent danger. The thick artery connecting me to the source of pre-life-mid-state was in a loose knot. Had gravity taken me to the wall, the ceiling or the floor with a snap, I’d have suffocated in my own miserable starvation; I’d have simply not been… been without a name, without a proper baptism into a world I was never a part of to begin with.
But, luckily, none of that was to be. All of this is, instead. I was born to inhabit June’s first rainy morning much earlier than expected. My eyes opened to the unending applause of rain on Hospital glass and the exhausted screams of my mother. My father took the day off to be with us; he was among the first to greet me. His first gift to me was my middle name, a name my mother intended to give me.
But my father, who had never betrayed my mother’s wishes and has never done so since, snuck away to sign my birth certificate. He neglected to ask for his wife’s permission. The name is daunting—a challenge; I will be lucky if I live up to it in this lifetime. I was christened Nicholas Oswald Lyons.