The Ocean at the End of the Lane

by Neil Gaiman

Childhood memories are sometimes covered and obscured beneath the things that come later, like childhood toys forgotten at the bottom of a crammed adult closet, but they are never lost for good.

As we age, we become our parents; live long enough and we see faces repeat in time.

“Men!” hooted Old Mrs. Hempstock. “I dunno what blessed good a man would be! Nothing a man could do around this farm that I can’t do twice as fast and five times as well.”

“I want to remember,” I said. “Because it happened to me. And I’m still me.”