The thing is… how much do I remember of my past.
I mean really. Of my own life. I can go over the past decade just fine… since I’ve been an adult it is all there and all my little stories stand up of their own accord – my own micro history… my personal narrative holds up but then if I push back further… into my childhood… well there just isn’t much there… much distinction to my past.
When I used to talk about family with Lucinda, no when Lucinda used to talk about family with me, all her recollections were so pin point – so precise. Her life with her mother, the time they spent in Australia, her father… I mean I didn’t get a lot of this but when I did it was all there. The colours and sounds and smells seemed to be so real to her.
With me… well its just all an amorphous mass… my childhood is a featureless blob.
Maybe nothing of interest ever happened to me.
I was the golden child – the great hope – I left home – and then, well, and then I was a let down.
Not much of a story.
At least I haven’t got “All Coppers Are Bastards” tattooed to my lips.