It was probably the hottest day of summer; the sun was forcing its rays on the citizens of West Palm Beach, Florida. I was five and like most children in my neighborhood, I would never pass up the opportunity to play outside. This particular day, I had decided to ride my tricycle up and down the road. I would coast down the gently sloping hill about three houses down to Mr. Davis, who was sitting on his porch as usual, then turn as sharply as I could and pedal vigorously back up the hill. This continued for awhile until one time I made it down the hill and did not see Mr. Davis. I hopped off my tricycle and peered over his hedges and discovered Mr. Davis lying on the ground motionless.
My heart skipped about 50 beats. I sprinted to my tricycle and pedaled up the hill back home. The ride back was excruciating. What usually took me about fifteen seconds, seemed to take hours. By the time I got home I was gasping for air and drenched in sweat. I tore open the screen door and found my mom making dinner in the kitchen and, in what I thought was a calm voice, shouted,
“Mr. Davis is dead! He’s laying on his porch!”
That was all I needed to say. My dad bolted out of the door to investigate while my mom stayed with me to calm me down, though it became impossible once I heard the blaring of an ambulance siren.
Fifteen minutes later my dad entered the house looking much calmer than I had expected. He explained to me that Mr. Davis had had a seizure (and what a seizure was) and that he was okay. I took his explanation as it was and didn’t bother questioning any further. I was just relieved that he was going to be okay. But this was not the truth.
He hadn’t died. Nor had he had a seizure like they told me. When I was in the sixth grade they figured I was old enough to know what had really happened. Mr. Davis had passed out because he was drunk. This is one of my most vivid memories from my childhood.
