Pyongyang, North Korea - Passing Time

My childhood wasn't any happier than anyone else's, as far as I can tell. Nor was it any more special or unique than anyone else's. Mostly, we just did whatever we could to pass the time.

Nearly sixty years after the fact all I have is thin fragments of memories: Running around outside with my friends, during a torrential downpour, wearing only a pair of shorts; building a go-cart so I could race against other kids in my neighborhood; visiting relatives in the countryside and stealing potatoes from a nearby farm and almost getting caught.

When I have these memories, it is difficult to remember whom I was with at the time or how I got there.

These thoughts feel like memories of someone else's dreams, relayed to me in quiet whispers.