A friend recently asked me a question. It came out of nowhere, making me pause and, at the same time, sending my memory down a path that seemingly had only two possibilities. You see, my friend is raising teenagers and sees life through their eyes. She’s seeing the wonder of their innocence, all while scanning her adult mind to predict the moments — and therefore memories — that could come to pass.

When you remember your childhood, is it good? Or is it bad? That’s what she asked. A simple survey between long-time friends. A focus group of comfort, support, and sheer honesty. She wanted my knee-jerk answer. A response off the cuff. Such a profound question had me searching thirty-seven years of memories in attempt to answer her ,As someone who loves the art of stringing a few words together, I gave my big picture answer — childhood was bad. But . . . when I really let myself think through the details of my childhood, then my answer changes — childhood was good. And, I know, it’s not the data she was hoping to collect. To answer both “good” and “bad” meant she’d have to tally both sides. Why bother even recording my answer at all?

The thought lingered in my mind. Then came a wave of nostalgia, a fistful of regret, a pinch of shame, and an outpouring of memories that needed to be pieced together like a puzzle. So, one by one I put the thousands of tiny pieces together until they snapped into place, creating a big picture that made sense of everything that came to my mind. Here is what I realized . . .

It’s as if the most painful memories are the most prominent ones. When asked about my childhood, the first memories that come to mind are those of me moving and saying goodbye to friends when I was in the sixth grade. Then there are the fragmented memories of my parents arguing, me crying whenever I was left out by friends, being teased at school, and fights with siblings.