It is the earliest of memories. Two or three years into life. Embryonic. Alone. Outside. Walking. It feels like early to mid afternoon. Blue sky above. Some clouds. Maybe summer. Maybe not.
A definite perception of freedom. Genuinely alone. A way of escape. A child with a map. Does twenty four or thirty six months give you consciousness? A place in the world?
This memory is burnt in. It’s hard driven. Remained. Rewatched. Accessed. Analysed. Behind many maisonettes. Grass. Concrete. A flight of steps. Child at risk. Stops.
Top of a flight. Steep. Stone. Memories make it feel slightly curved to the right. Sixties steps. An architects idea of home. Child stops. To descend is to leave descendants. This memory now so vivid. It stops on the first flight.