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.
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.