I was watching tv one night, a couple years back and I heard some character state that we don't usually form any memories until after the age of three. I started to thinking of all the things I can barely remember from the years even after I was three years old, so I decided to record anything I could dig up from my early years. This is what I have so far. I'm hoping this will turn into something myself and my family can look back on, and also hopefully you may find something you can relate to as well.

[Chocolate brown couch. Smell of aftershave.]

Conversations you have during a difficult time, no matter what the topic, are always on edge. Theres a feeling of constantly traveling, and always in the direction of the very thing you wish to avoid, but also want desperately to come up, as if everyone else will forget it if it doesn't.
Like overlarge moths to the bonfire.
You can feel the heat as you get closer.
You can feel it roll up your neck while trying to breathe steady,
You can feel it on your face as your jaw clenches.
You can feel it stinging at your eyes, using the very thing you'd think would put it out to burn you.

My Memere (grandmother in French) used to dip Oreo cookies in her coffee, like most people would with a donut. I was "Mr. Green Jeans" to her, as it was my favorite color. She also was given Pitou (one of the two dogs my parents bought; we'll get into that later) as a gift from my parents, before my brother and I could get too attached. She liked him to sit on her chair with her, but in a very specific way; his bottom on one side of the chair, paws and head resting on it's arm. He still sits that way to this day, only, without her. She died of cancer when I was nine.

The morning of Memere's funeral me and my brother Bobby were sat down, side by side on the couch in front of my father. He was wearing a suit with his cowboy boots tucked under his pant legs. I remember this fact because I studied every intricate pattern there was to be learned from that pair while he talked to us. It was an uncomfortable conversation; the fire had gotten to his and Bobby's eyes, and I could smell smoke drifting my way. I don't remember everything he said verbatim, but one part, I do remember: my father told us it was okay if we cried. Here he was clean shaven, wearing a suit picked out for this occasion, telling us that it was okay to cry on the same day his mother was being buried. Up until recently I hadn't put much thought into how that must have been. In my mind I imagine him getting ready for the day ahead, and I try to think in the way that he might have. Was he avoiding the subject completely while he buttoned his shirt? Did he sit near the bonfire, maybe circle around it slowly, tentativley, trying his best not to jump in headlong? I can't imagine.

We had been talking recently, my father and I, about his various memories of school, which led to Memere somehow. Jeopardy was on the TV, us answering questions, me getting some right, claiming some others to be right, regardless of what Trebek said, that unscrupulous liar. At on point he was wondering how old I was at the time of his mothers death, and had pressed mute. After doing the math, he remarked that it had been ten years, with a little amazement. I was quiet. "It still hurts" he told me, while taking off his glasses.

I guess a moth is always a moth, no matter what, or when, and a fire is always a fire.
In reality, there are no camping trips; but only extended visits out of the campsite, and into the world.
i need to hear some sounds that recognize the pain in me, yeah.