There once was a boy named Bobby...

My childhood is gone—
no, not in that sense.
In my daily life:
in the things I do,
the people I see,
the places I go,
the music I listen to,
the food I eat;
those remembrances that come in a flash:
gone.
Not all of them, of course,
but far too many.
Bits and pieces, here and there, come flitting into my mind,
like dropped Polaroids purloined by the wind,
of singular moments—
snapshots of things long past—
a spark, igniting incendiary grey matter,
quickening the image to action,
playing out what had played out.
But, that’s it.
Most things are just, gone.
Most of my life before school.
Most of my life during school.
Most birthdays.
Most holidays.
Most of the time with those now past.
Most things are hidden,
unless something extraordinary stirs them from their slumber.
I did those things!
I can remember doing those things,
but often can’t remember the things themselves,
more, the feeling of doing them.
There’s a vagueness to my history.
I know I had a life.
I know I’ve lived.
Where has it gone?
Why is it hidden?
Is there something within these things I don’t want to confront?
Or have they simply left me?
My mind can feel void,
and I don’t know why,
and it's disconcerting.
The child in my head does exist:
I’ve seen him in pictures,
heard about him in stories,
and he occasionally comes to me from within myself,
but he can seem more abstract than absolute.
I want to see him, freely, again.
I want him to show me what he’s done.
I want him to tell me what he’s seen.
I want him to introduce me to those he’s met, whom I can’t meet again—
those with nameless faces, or faceless names,
or those I’ve loved, but only now have a sense of.
I want so much, but have come to expect so little,
and I don’t disappoint.