Envy competes with astonishment when I hear people describe their childhood memories in rich detail like they are touring a well-stocked library, pulling out volumes at will.
My childhood memory room is undecorated, nearly bare. At age 12, hit by the megaton blast of my father’s sudden fatal heart attack, I experienced a nuclear winter that seared my memory banks, leaving the past in ashes and the near future in clouds of unknowing. I have to concentrate and struggle to bring even snapshots of my childhood into focus.
The Snapshot category is a memory journal in black and white.