Sprint Screens

How is it that writers always seem to remember everything about their childhood? I read things like "I was in the 4th grade and I was sitting next to Judy Marlin in Mr. Bridge's class. Mr. Bridge was talking about fractions. It was a Tuesday," and I either call bullshit or become utterly dismayed.

Because my early memories are bigger than brushstrokes. They are an entire bottle of paint, knocked over, its reach shallow and undefined.

A green bicycle, wheels thickened with grime, rolling down a shallow hill--two sneaker-soles scraping against asphalt. My heart dropping to my socks at the mere suggestion of a kiss. Worlds invented in the solitude of Sunday afternoon. A pink apartment building. The time I could see my own sweat dripping from one eyelid to the other. A game of tag gone horribly wrong. First encounters (that, in reality, were not). Last handshakes (that, in reality, may not be). Sports abandoned. Fun redefined.

Or how about that time I was sprinting--it was a bet or something--towards a park bench at night. I reach the bench and see a shadow, just out of reach of a soft yellow streetlight. Thinking back, I have no idea what I thought it could possibly be--a snake perhaps (but in the middle of the city?), a disembodied tentacle?, a void into a dark underworld of rat-like humanoids? Whatever it is--this amalgamation of all things evil--it makes me stagger. I change directions on a dime, wildly overrating my agility and entangling my legs like noodles around a fork. I fall to the ground, lips first.

And that's where the memory-moment ends. Who was watching? Were they laughing at my cowardice or wiping the dirt from my knees? Did I try again? I have every right to know these things. And if not, then--like sounds, sometimes--I may just have to make them up. Seems more rewarding than just saying "I don't remember."