The sensation of being thrown up in the air, the freefall, the joy in my belly, the reassurance of being caught. Held in my father’s arms. And whoosh, up into the air again. Pure joy.

Visiting my great-grandmother in a nursing home. She thought I was a nice little boy despite my dress and pink barrettes. Her funeral — I expected her body to float out of the coffin and up to heaven. I wondered how it would get out of the building — through the closed window or out the closed door? I went up to the coffin. I needed to make sure she still had a face and was relieved that she did. The service was very long and boring for a four-year-old, especially when her body didn’t float anywhere. My dad thought I should be quieter and stiller. I had to remind him that I was only four and so didn’t have a long attention span.

At the cemetery, I understood she would be buried in the ground the way I buried mice and other small creatures that I’d found drowned in our pool in margarine containers in our backyard garden. It was terrifying to me that she would be trapped down there forever.

I have an early memory of a family portrait taken at my grandmother’s house, the photographer popping under a sheet to take the photo. There was a bright flash. This memory is so clear to me, but nobody in my family remembers this happening. I often wonder who I have been in past lives.