These are the ways we warp our past to make sense of our present. Childhood is slathered in dew & dustrose. The skinned-knee years are forgotten--tucked between sheet & mattress. Memories that survive their own collapse are left out to become our haunts. With these, a mythology is crafted.
That night in the woods in the dead of December, the lucky pennies on Burns Street, the bike rides for afternoon slushies — they all become bigger than they were. A collection of moments that represent nothing, anything--but are somehow imperative to keep. They become part of the mythology we believe about who we’ve been--about who we are. These are the stories we want - the ones that will themselves into being. The child in us still blinking at the world as it unfolds.