Under Bedcover Thoughts

What is more extraordinary about childhood memories:

The fact of the memory itself, that one exists, and has survived over the years, with specificities of taste, touch, smell, sound, and color; or the fact of occurrence, that the image or snippet of memory was once an action, in the present, and that the crying boy with the scraped knees on the pavement is you, and that even now you can touch those same cheeks that your mom once dried with her pool towel, or shirt tail?

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