I’ve always been blessed with a shockingly good memory. For instance, one time when I was in my mid-twenties, I shocked my mom by describing the home we lived in until I was three. I mean, I remembered the exact layout of every room and closet. “What else do you remember from that age?” she asked, curious to know what kind of stuff stuck in my head. Well, I remembered finding an axe handle in the field behind our house, I remembered waiting for a new couch to be delivered, and I remembered the first time I dropped the f-bomb. Continue reading