I am called Amy. I hate the fact that so many others have my name. Good thing my middle name is Doris - I have yet to meet another with the oh-so-musical Amy Doris combination.
I was probably four. In the kitchen. Beige linoleum, round wooden table, dark lighting. A package of cookies sitting there, poised at the edge of the table. It seems to me they were fudge sandwich cookies, the white kind with the chocolate middle. May or may not have been name brand; chances are, generic. I asked Mom if I could have one and she said I could have one, but only one. I took my cookie and went off to play. However, one cookie was simply not enough. I wanted another one, and I was determined to get it. Mom was in the shower - in fact, I seem to remember the steam in the kitchen, which was next to the bathroom. The cookies sat there, unattended, the essence of seduction. I looked around - no one else was home. There were so many cookies in that package, no one would ever notice the difference . . . and I took another cookie. That guilt followed me for years.
I often wonder which aspects of our first memories are to-the-fact genuine, and how many we kind of invent for ourselves as we grow older. I have noticed that all my early memories center more on specific images: colors, shapes and specific objects.