I believe it is important to remember our childhood. I am probably so keen on remembering my childhood because I can’t remember it at all. My memories are composed of a few scraps from my many years as a child: most of them useless. Some of them, I often think, are just outputs of my imagination, tricking me into believing that I actually remember something valuable.
People that can tell funny, exciting stories of their childhood piss me off. I tend to think they are lying to make other people believe that they had the best childhood. A recent memory I have is from sitting in my Shakespeare class playing Mr. James’ M&M game. We all gathered as many M&Ms as possible and organized them in brightly colored displays on our desks; for each M&M we would say one thing about ourselves. One girl had too many M&Ms and for each one, she told of her childhood. She told of locking her sister in a suitcase and many other fantastical stories we all wished we had experienced. She smiled with pride while I sat in my desk pouting over her everlasting memory and the amount of M&Ms she had left. My jealousy radiates towards those people that can tell story after story of their childhood, and still have more to tell.
I’m so jealous of these people because I think my childhood is the underlying creator of who I am and everything I do. And it seems that if I can’t figure out this creator behind everything I am than I must not know who I am. I begin to bang on my computer’s keyboard with a bit more ferocity than before, as I grow annoyed at the recent memory of that girl’s plentiful memories. I want to remember those ‘chick trips’ my mom would take my sister and I on once a year. I want to remember more of those perfectly warm summer nights when my dad and I would bike to Bonnie Brae Ice Cream for a scoop of that fattening, yet utterly delicious “sinfully cinnamon”. I want to remember the hotel in Avignon, France that my sister remembers as if it was a movie she can replay.
All of the memory clips I have drive my brain down a deserted path to my childhood. I can picture myself walking along the concrete cement that moves out of my memory clips—hanging as if they were movie posters—and into a desert filled with nothing but sand. I yearn to hang more movie-like memories along that path of desert, but my memories are like water in my hands: slipping quickly through as soon as I try to grab them. For me, it is crucial to peel off every memory I have clinging to the back of my brain and hang it in my sand filled desert of a memory. For without these precious memories, I will never truly find the meaning behind who I am and everything I do.
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