I remember green. Lots of green. Swirling greens and slight yellows with black tint. 
It was in England; my first memory, my first recollection. I’m not sure when it was,
 but I remember being very small, very naïve.

I’m sitting in the backseat of a car, the seats are grey, I don’t know who’s driving,
 but I look outside and everything is green—green bushes and trees hanging down over 
everything as though they were the ceiling of the universe. I don’t know who I am, 
or where I’m going. I’m just there. When you’re that young the bounds of the universe
 are so rigidly defined… the cricket field where my father used to bowl in the sunset,
 the rope-swing deep in the forest and the church down the street were my universe. 

And in that memory, that single memory, my earliest memory, at least how I categorize
 it, I am just a floating cherub, surrounded by the forest, lights swirling through 
the leaves casting yellow shadows through the permeating green. 

And I think I’m happy, but I don’t remember why. It doesn’t really matter. 

Are you ever not happy when you’re young? 

I don’t think I realized my own mortality until I heard about how bad people are 
cutting down the rainforest in third grade, so I’m sure that it was just a pure moment. 
A green moment. A purely ambiguous snap-shot; My first memory and probably the only 
one that matters because at that moment I wasn’t me.