Had I known it would be my final day by
There is a dropper coming at me. I fight it off with my small hands. I hate the taste. I don't know why it's being shoved into my mouth, but it keeps coming. Pink powdery ooze goes down my throat.
My earliest memories are filtered through my mother's psychoanalytic lens. She liked to recall her favorite incidents from my childhood and delightedly repeat them to me over the years.
How well I remember it. My mother laughing above me - either I was in the pram, or more likely, sitting on the seat that went across the pram with my baby sister the one in the pram itself.
It would be easy to surmise that I can't really be remembering this, that this is a false memory triggered by a photograph.
Red Room has asked us to blog of early memories. I remember Christmas morning when I was almost three. We lived on Long Island, where my sister and I got up before our parents and checked ou
The doors shut me in the elevator.
I truly believe that what we remember of our earliest life is more on the order of a camera shutter that opens briefly, takes a picture for us, and slams shut again. My earliest memory that Im su
I can see the moonlight shining through the flimsy curtains—something woke me and I can't sleep. I am four years old and I turn towards my older sister's bed and she is up too.
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