The Little Yellow Boat

I have this memory that keeps coming up for me, so I thought I’d share it with you. 

I was young. I can’t say exactly how young; old enough that I was playing by myself, in front of our house. Young enough to still be utterly enraptured by what happened next. 

It was early spring. The snow had just melted away. 

And by the curb in front of our house, from under the now-melted snow, a little toy appeared. 

It was a small, yellow boat. Nothing fancy or complex — just a simple, plastic toy. A bit grimy and dirty from its months on the side of the road. But yellow nonetheless.

I must have dropped it there while playing, back in the summertime. In the months that followed, that little forgotten object had been covered by leaves, then snow, then rain, then run-off. 

And here it was. A dot of still-bright yellow on the otherwise grey and dirty concrete. 

I squatted down. Peered over. And a vague flash of memory hit me. 

I didn’t quite remember this toy. I had no distinct memories of playing with it. Yet it was… familiar somehow. 

It belonged to me. 

It meant something to me; I just couldn’t quite say what. I had that strange feeling of recognition and familiarity without being able to define the memory exactly. 

I think of this memory from time to time. 

I think of it in the winter when I look forward to spring. 

I think of it in times when I feel I’ve lost myself, gotten off course somehow. 

And I think of it now. 

I think of it a lot.