I’m always impressed by people who remember a wealth of details of their early elementary years (or even earlier). I have flashes of those days, images of particular places and people, but most of the smaller details allude me. I had several friends growing up (or so my mother tells me), but I can’t remember who they were until fourth grade. And I was always a straight-A student, but off the cuff, I could only tell you the name of two teachers I had from kindergarten to sixth grade. The only reason I remember my second grade teacher’s name is because it was also a word for something else: Ms. Stair.

Or maybe it was Mrs.

And could it have been “Stare”?

See what I mean?

My wife, on the other hand, could probably tell you the name of all of her teachers and friends from preschool on.

In a way, it’s a little disconcerting. Besides questioning my mental faculties, because I’m a speculative fiction writer in my free time, my mind naturally conjures up fantastic reasons for why I remember so little from childhood – why so many people around me have such vivid memories but mine are more like photographs from an old family album. And in fact, in many situations, I’m not sure which is which. Do I actually remember that birthday in McDonalds, back when the interior was decorated more like a normal diner and less like a carnival ride? I remember more wood trim and less hard plastic. Less bright oranges and yellows.

Or maybe I just remember the photograph my mother took from that day, and I filled in the rest of the film with my imagination.

Or maybe, the speculative writer imagines, the reason my youth feels like a memory fabricated from a series of photographs is because I didn’t actually exist in those years – or in that reality. Those memories were implanted in my head (probably for some nefarious reason or other, the writer in my brain tells me). Maybe my whole life is made up, and I have to find the secret to my true existence. Maybe even on another planet.

And then I remember this is not “Total Recall,” and I’m certainly not Arnold Schwarzenegger.

Or am I?

No, I’m not. I’m just a guy who just doesn’t remember those early years as well as some people.

So if I were to tell the story of my life, where would I begin?