Childhood is a whirl of confusion, bliss, clarity, and naivety. The memories we have from this time shape us into the people we become. However, our memories rarely strike us with luscious clarity or certainty. Our memories are often haunted by our adult perceptions of reality, tainted by the stories we are told and our family members’ retellings of the events.
I cannot say with certainty what my first memory is. There are blips, pieces of my life that flash around, pieces of joy, of fear, of resonating sadness.
So, below, a description of some of my early memories, since I cannot pinpoint exactly one.
The list goes on and on. My childhood was a magical one. I was an only child, but I was never lonely. With my parents, my pets, and my imagination, I was never alone. My mom was a creative mind, always coming up with something for us to do.
Most of all, my childhood taught me that books are magical. From an early age, they always put a book in my hand. My childhood was filled with moments, big and small, that shaped me into the person I am today.
Looking back, the first memory isn’t what is the most important—it’s the people in my memories. Every memory, every moment of my childhood involves my parents. And every memory, every moment that shaped me is because of their dedication, their values, and their commitment to giving me the best childhood they could.
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