The first half-decade of my life has been meagerly accounted for in a triplet. That is to say, what my poor memory has decided to purge from its acres were the crawling weeds in the crevices, or whatever else occupied the spaces between the three memorial pillars of my childhood. This imagery is appropriate to the nature of these impactful primordial experiences, the latter two of which came about in gardens and the first which occured in the Eternal City. 

It was in Rome that I fast awoke from the slumber of the womb. I cannot explain it, but it was as if I were already a grown-up walking those ancient streets, for no feeling of youth can I perceive was felt from that little man of two. Pictures shown to me later in life explain my being there: my uncle, due to give a dissertation to the Cardinals, was accompanied by the whole of the family as he received his doctorate—and I, being newly inaugurated to the familial college, was dragged along. But certainly the reason for my recollection had nothing pertaining to that, for all that remained of those grown-up details were the men in red. But it was precisely the color that remained seared in me, for although the ‘big man’ is apt to overlook it, Rome for the infant is a place of overwhelming stimuli. The classic architecture, the larger than life proportions; the sounds, the never-ending bustle of pious tourists; the gold-gilded vestments and shimmering crowns of the princes of the Church—all this and more kept me in a sort of stupor, but not one of astonishment. It was all usual, was it not? The beauty around me, to mention nothing of the food (gelato) and music (accordion), was introduced to be not as the exception but the rule. And it is this rule that my heart has come to love by experience and come to believe by reason—but I came to know it by meeting it, not as an orphan but as a son. 

It could not have been more than two years later and not less than eight thousand miles further that my second chronological memory occurred. Again, arising from that ancient slumber I found myself in the Garden. Its title receives capitalization, for in the mind of the boy it was synonymous with Eden—it was the place in right order, with an imperceptible providence watching over the glorified acre (which was my mother through the window). Small though it was, it could not have been larger to the little man. The maple tree, which I could now nearly encompass, was like the tree in Paradise, often depicted as being larger than a redwood. The wooden stake fence, which I could in my current age make over in a leap, then seemed as immense as the wall of China and as terrible as that of Jericho—common to both was an unspoken sense of sacredness which the wall held in. The hastas loomed over me as if I were a Liliputian; the sunflower soared with a queer presence as if I were Alice in her wonderland. It is this very sense of small places being made quite large in youth (or conversely, large places being made quite small in age) that has remained with me till this day. A quiet study-spot or reading nook fills me with every comfort in the world, and soon it becomes the world. Small and big become—magically—mere perspectives, yet I doubt I would have sensed this if I did not have the garden, or if I did not have its walls. 

It was outside the walls of my parents’ garden that my final memory in my fifth year occurred. Not far, however—I was merely outside the confines by a few yards when the neighbor's dog came over. The breed escapes me, but I swear I knew it at the time. What has remained was the name: Daisy. Through the flowers and beds we tumbled, for what felt like hours. I had a real connection in that moment to another living thing, and while memories of my parents and siblings have not remained so closely, this moment with the creature has stayed near to my heart. It was with pain that I trudged over to my mother when she called across the lawn in the small neighborhood, and I waved goodbye to the dog. “See you soon” I undoubtedly thought—but I knew I wouldn’t. Who knows how I knew, for it was almost as if mere moments had passed that I found myself sitting in the minivan on the way to the new house. Much like my visit to Rome, my young mind instantly adopted the scenario: this is how it always was, and this is how it will continue to be. But what remained was a sadness for what I did not know I desired, or even what I missed. I may have even felt the same thing for the womb, or whatever was before that—this sadness remains with me now, the nostalgic feeling that perhaps, in the infinite progression of events, I may have lost track of some bit or bauble which was of great importance. Yet, and very appropriately to this feeling, I will likely never find out. 

Such were the memories carved from those first five years. Like a statue of wood, the remainders from the carving were discarded and scattered, or at worst burned. Yet it is impossible that a handful will not end up collecting in the less-visited corners of this carpentry. In so many ways, I am the apprentice of that child, given the task of taking up the work which he left for me. And it is by these dusty relics and thrown away bits that I begin to make sense of those things which made the product I now work with. To further the analogy, maybe the carpenter is more inclined to oak than pine, just as I am more inclined to a gated garden than an open one. Who is to say but he who stands in my memory, a bit too far back to meet nowadays—but I assume the memories he has left me are those which God, in His wisdom, has considered sufficient.