In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “The Early Years.”
I never remember being a happy child, but then again I never remember being a particularly unhappy child. I remember just being, I suppose. Moreso, I remember my childhood in terms of pictures seen later and antidotes told by friends and family. Sometimes I feel as if I didn’t really exist except in the framework of those around me. And sometimes, I wonder if those memories I carry are really mine or if I’ve constructed a childhood for myself in order to prove that I am alive. That I was a child. That I existed.