Birth

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Birth is an odd moment in one's life. Memory alone would have one believe that life began at the age of four, or, more interesting yet, that life had never began, but always was, with the rest out of recall, if deductive reasoning hadn't suggested otherwise. 

 

My personal history, curated in this case by my family, suggests I was born in Anaheim, in a large concrete high-rise, by the name of Providence Hospital. My parents were young, but intentional. Jokingly, I think if I were to write a memoir I’d start with the line, "It all began with a mistake: conception," but I don't know that it's all that simple, or how truthful that is.

 

As with all beginnings, it assumes an ending and everything between.