I’ve found the process of recalling my memories a fascinating experience, one that can be likened to the assembly of a mysterious puzzle one might find on the floor beneath a flattened piece of cardboard in the attic of an old house on a dreary day.
Having nothing better to do, I pick the pieces up and place them on an old desk next to a tall window overlooking the backyard and start assembling them in hopes I’ll be able to recreate the picture that appeared on the cardboard box they came in. The pieces are small but large in number so I start with the edges — the easy part — and then work toward the middle. The top of the box is missing but the bottom has a sticker that clearly identifies the puzzle as “My Life.”
I have yet to piece enough of them together to build an adequate frame let alone begin to recognize the big picture so I guess I’ll continue writing in hopes that the image will eventually become manifest. Once revealed, perhaps I’ll finally understand why The Manufacturer chose to make it and the owner chose to hold on to it. At this point there’s one thing I do know and that’s that I have led an exceptionally protected and privileged life.