It got dark, and we didn’t need anything else. Mamie’s voice, company before an impossible blue, salt on our skin, the absence of fear. If you asked me now what kind of ice cream it was, I couldn’t remember. But I could tell you any flavor, and they’d all be true. That’s the thing about half-remembered memories—we can put them together the way we want. And exaggerate them. Literature is full of stories like that.
