On my fourth birthday I remember sitting under a hanging cloth shelf in my family's dining room. Our wooden floor was hard on my knees, and my head was oscillating the towers of knick-knacks above. I was looking into our kitchen watching my father wash the dishes and my mother finish icing a cake for my birthday party later.
Observing the birthday preparations, I had a deep four-year-old thought, "I am really old. I am four." I am not sure why I remember the exact mental phrasing that ran through my brain, but this memory has always been etched into my past experience library. Throughout my life, some memories have stuck with me and some have slipped away. For whatever reason, concrete has held this one in place.
Some memories are recurring and mighty. Some are blurring and dying. I am going to start a blog series to tell my life stories. They may not be chronological or comprehensive, but I want to start writing out my life. Any blog of this nature will be titled: Life Stories (Number X).
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