Why is that? Why is my childhood flattened down to just that age? If someone tracked my life according to the stories or memories I recalled, they would think my sixth year was tremendous—packed with lunacy, silliness, adventure and tragedy.
- Was I six when my brother taught me it was Six Flags and not whatever it was I was saying? No.
- Was I six when we got horses? No.
- Was I six when I broke my arm or my other arm? No.
- Was I six when my mom bought me a Barbie van that I played with all of Christmas day and then never again? Probably.
- Was I six when I cut off the tip of my right index finger? No.
- Was I six when my parents attempted to teach me water skiing? Definitely not.
But for whatever reason, the age of six is golden to me. Whatever childhood memory is recalled, I picture it in my mind as this six-year-old with long, flowing, golden hair.
Then I remember, I wasn’t six when my brother cut open the belly of a snake to reveal a bunny.
I wasn’t six when I rode my bike two miles to prove my mother was wrong—and she turned out to be right.
I wasn’t six when I swam a mile round-trip to the other side of a Lake Allatoona channel.
Not everything memorable happened at the age of six. If it had of, a movie would’ve been written about me long ago.
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