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Memory

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.

fuzzy tiger

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.

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