That first clear memory

she said.

I am 3 years old. We have just moved to Colombia and I am standing in a open space with a very tall ceiling and am surrounded by other children. There is a loud noise and candy is falling everywhere. All the children around me dive forward into the center of what must be a circle we’re standing in. I have no idea what is going on.

*

We live in the jungle until my mother decides it is time to move back to the States. She is afraid, maybe, that if we don’t move back, my brothers and I will turn into little heathen children. At this point, it is already too late.

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My first sense memory is from even before Colombia. It is from Labrador. I am in what I know now was our trailer on the jobsite. It must be winter. I am standing on what must have been our couch and I am leaning on the metal windowsill. The windowsill was cold. My hands were cold. The sense memory. I was trying to look out the window at something large and loud and moving. It was probably the snowplow. My breath fogged the window and I couldn’t see. I moved a step sideways on the couch and saw for a moment before my breath blurred the view again. Step. Breath. Fog. Step. Breath. Fog. My hands were cold. The sense memory. I ran out of couch before I ran out of window.

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