There I am now, learning to ride my bike. Dad is behind me. But that's a different memory.
I already know the truth about this dream: I don't know those woods very well. I stayed closer to the house in those early days. I'd come back to explore them in later years, a town-dweller back for a visit.
Maybe I dream about them because they are completely left to the imagination; there's no reality there. I don't know them at all.
I miss that place, the country, land that my family called their own. Now, someone else's name is on the deed - the old barn, the hay loft, the fields of pine trees.
Another dream I'm remembering now. I'm circling the garden; it's big. There are vegetables here, but I can't tell who tends them. There's no sign of Papa; I feel alone out here. Desolate. Haunted, even. But someone is keeping, tending this garden, I can see this.
Now, I'm in it, right there among the tomato vines. I know this place better than the woods but still, not enough. In the later years, I simply passed by, never to go inside. What kept me away? What did I miss?
Everything, I'm afraid.