I carry a very vivid recollection with me:

A split-level house in Richmond. Spring sunshine is streaming through a crescent-shaped window in a white front door, falling on golden wood floors. Footsteps echo loudly; the house is empty.

I am sitting on the front stairs in the hallway, sticking my short stubby legs out in front of me to admire white sandals. I smooth my pink bunny - a combination of blanket and puppet - over my knees, touching the soft satin of his ears. An adult, whose face I can no longer remember, sits on the stair below, and asks me how old I am.

I hold up two fingers, and pronounce proudly, "Two." Then I correct myself. "Two and a HALF."

There are other snapshots that are linked to this memory: of dancing on the wood floor, to hear the clatter of my own feet. Of staring at blue and red wallpaper in an empty bedroom, printed with the smiling faces of Raggedy Ann and Andy.

This is either my first real memory, of our move from Richmond to Victoria, where I grew up, or it's something I've imagined, based on stories I have been told. That's the funny thing about memory, though - it can feel as real as right now. And maybe that's all that matters, is what feels real to us.