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.

‘How old are you, really?’ I asked. ‘Eleven.’ I thought for a while. Then I asked, ‘How long have you been eleven for?’ She smiled at me.

I helped her put the flowers into the vases, and she asked my opinion on where to put the vases in the kitchen. We placed them where I suggested, and I felt wonderfully important.

Adults should not weep, I knew. They did not have mothers who would comfort them.

I do not miss childhood, but I miss the way I took pleasure in small things, even as greater things crumbled. I could not control the world I was in, could not walk away from things or people or moments that hurt, but I took joy in the things that made me happy.

A flash of resentment. It’s hard enough being alive, trying to survive in the world and find your place in it, to do the things you need to do to get by, without wondering if the thing you just did, whatever it was, was worth someone having, if not died, then having given up her life. It wasn’t fair.