"In those days I was young, and all sorts of fancies bright and dark tenanted my mind: the memories of nursery stories were there amongst other rubbish; and when they recurred, maturing youth added to them a vigour and vividness beyond what childhood could give." - Jane Eyre

I was like that when I fell into a blissful and ignorant reminiscent of my childhood. It was true that I had a memory like a roll of films, just like my Dad had said. I remembered playing in the grass, swinging on the swings, swooshing down the slides. I remembered inconsequential details like the tile arrangment of our neighbor's kitchen. I remembered the bumpy carpeting of my home. My best friend and I balancing on a bike. Watching the steam rise from the rooftop over the swimming pool. Stuff like that. Attention to detail, no? But I would forget the famed sights of Germany, sites of historical significance, places in China I visited with the family because I was too young to understand. Nevertheless, my mother still thought travelling at such a young age was an invaluable part of growing up and of parenting. But there were things I would remember for a lifetime because they had been brought up not long after whatever passed, salvaged from the vague recollections of 'Those Early Days'.