Looking back, it is difficult to find a really good, full memory of my childhood. Its all just fragments, really; shards of events without even the benefit of a good temporal anchor. I remember walking in the woods with my father, something that I know we did together from a young age, but how young exactly? I can remember the trail that wound up behind our home up in the mountains, how it seemed, at the time, to be something very natural, created by the forces of deer and bear rather than man. I can remember how the trees, mostly every-greens as I recall, seemed to tower over me, and how fallen branches where adventurous obstacles. But where they such because I was four? Six? Eight? I don't know. And it seems to me that I must not have cared at the time; what age I was, what day it was, so why should I now. Is an event in my life any more meaningful because I am able to dredge up a mental calender to go with it? Is it somehow more special because I can point to a spot on the map and say "there, that is where it happened?" I think not. I am content to let my early memories, and indeed many of my more recent ones, remain as fragments. After all, of such fragments are mosaics made.
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