He remembered it well, his mother guiding him through the moves until he could nearly do it in his sleep. Her hands were calloused, yet gentle, her words patient and warm even when he made mistake after mistake. "You'll get it, my little robin," she would always say when his frustration would peak.
Most of all her voice stuck out in his memory. It was like a flowing river, each syllable gracefully sliding to the next. Her accent was slight, just enough to be noticeable, but it only added to the smoothness of her speech.
His father was stubborn. He arms were thinner than to be expected of a man, but underneath his skin were strong muscles like powerful wires. In other words, he was built to be an acrobat. This was something that his son inherited, and he took great pride in this. He was smart, every word thought about before leaving his mouth.
Unlike his wife, his hands would be most recalled. They were rough, something earned from his profession, but always so carefully, they maneuvered his son's tiny hands to the ropes. They were the hands that first taught him the joy of flying, the thrill of the wind rushing through his hair as he completed his routine.
He feared, that one day, he would forget these things about his parents.
He feared, that one day, his only memory of them would be the sickening cracks of bone and strangled screams.