A Kind of Home for a Kind of Life

Home is a funny thing, isn't it? I mean, really, it's where your family is, or the people you love, the place you're used to and where you have memories of growing up. 

My memories of growing up are so scattered that sometimes I see snippets of light through a window and it will remind me of a time and a place and a feeling of a life that I will have completely forgotten over the years. And those memories come back in a flood.

Other times I'll see a toy or a photo and I'll recognise them as a part of my past, and I'll try to remember it, but it will feel like a past from someone else's life. A childhood that I can't identify with at all. It's sad in a way, but then there are so many bits that I can remember that it's not actually so sad, just a part of growing up. You can't remember everything. Oh I wish I could though, I wish I could remember every second of it. 

I wish I could remember what kind of person I was as a child. Is that a thing? Can people remember what kind of a person they used to be?