Childhood

There was a time when I moved from one secure place to somewhere else, as I have done now.

There is a sepia photo of a small girl in a cage with white rabbits. Sitting there in its frame in the living room of my last home and in some other familiar position in the house before, I assumed it was a moment my mother had captured at a petting zoo somewhere in my misty childhood.

But this evening, as I looked at it again, in this new place, on the top of a dresser purchased at a second-hand store in Mirepoix, furniture now mine in a room in a partially settled house in Southern France,  I recognized suddenly another reality. There I was, in my backyard in the first place we’d moved from Brooklyn.  In our new town, I was five years old, tending the rabbits that were mine, that my parents had given me, in the pen my father had built for them there on the square of grass behind the duplex they’d rented on a nice old street in a nice old town.

Now, as I recapture those images of childhood, I didn’t feel that small in the big world, that sweet and delicate.  In my memory of the rabbits, I was a person of consciousness, of large awareness–of rabbits,  of a body of some magnitude navigating tree-lined streets on a tricycle, of other people in my world, of great imaginations.

In the photo, I am as little as my granddaughter. She will remember herself as a person of agency, just as I remember. She will remember conversations she has had with friends. She will remember herself in those dream-like memories as a real person in interaction with the world. She will know who she was.

On top of the dresser

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