My Unremembered Past

I don’t have vivid memories of my childhood. I mean if I think really hard about it I’ll find some events that fit in the general mold of not-not-childhood, but when other people can pin point things from when they were three I’m amazed. I’m not even sure that I was ever three let alone that anything happened if I was.
Looking at pictures I do see that I was an infant once, white and red as any newborn baby. Then slowly I started to look like myself until the age of three when I looked exactly like me and, from that point on, never changed. Then there are pictures of me with people I’m sure I never knew at places I’m sure I’ve never been and in uniforms for teams I’m sure I was never on. Where do these pictures fit in reality?
The stories I know are the stories I’m told. Stories about funny or cute or good or bad things that I’ve done; everything I tell about a smaller me is a retelling of a retelling an I’m string to think that maybe something is wrong with that, but for now I sit with the memories I do have and
Wonder when those will leave me as well.


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