I know for a fact that this happened; my preschool class went on a field trip to the coast, although I cannot remember which part specifically. My mom went with me, as did most of the parents in the class, if not all. There were crabs on the beach, and the mist was heavy against the ocean. My mother showed me a picture of me, small with wind brushed hair, wearing a puffy coat as I pointed to the sand of the beach. I couldn’t have been more than four or five. She has another in the same place. I'm holding a very small white crab in my cupped hands, which I remember setting down and watching as it ran away. But the blood and the tears feel unreal, as did the running to my mother. The warm gush of blood running down my face and the tears are so vivid, but I cannot remember any pain before, during, or after the memory.

I do not think I was hurt at any point that day. Thinking years later, my brain and memories formed a wound that could have been a way to rationalize attention from my mother as a child, not knowing but sensing still that her and my father’s relationship was less than perfect; I have even more distant memories of my parents fighting, their voices smudged out of existence, but I can tell something is wrong. It also could have also been my brain hyper with emotion, viewing any pain as physical and wanting comfort in the process. I’ve reviewed the memory over and over, looking at the pictures we have from and wondering the relevancy of my tears and hurt that were most likely not real in the way I imagine.

It was only a year or two ago that I thought about the day again, this time trying to pinpoint the tears and blood and why they were there. I could have hit my head on a table and ran crying to my mom. The new place and scenario could have overwhelmed me and made me imagine pain. My hood on my coat could have fallen over my eyes for all I know, making young me imagine bleeding and crying and everything wrong at once. But I don't think I was ever hurt, but just wanted an excuse to hug my mother on the beach. 

The memory has warped over the years, more pieces being cut off and scattered, or blurred heavily in a fish-eye lens, but two things remain clear and sharp; unreal tears, and the real feeling of my mother hugging me before we went to find crabs hidden under rocks. My mother and father have not been together for some time now, and it's been a painful relationship to endure since preschool. I’ve had to adapt to new lives and new families, losing myself at the beach in the process of growing and facing problems. But I've also grown with the beach, and I see my mother older in the memory. Her hair is more gray, face less youthful, which isn't right. I am too short in the memory, and it feels like my father was never in that day, before or after, despite living with him almost exclusively for 10 years. I've never really shared the memory with anyone besides my mother, knowing it was special to me and her.

The beach is sandy and rocky, and in bits and pieces. My blood isn't real but I am still crying, and the fine mist of the ocean washes over both me and my mind. I hug my mother tight and everything is ok. She knows I'm ok. Most of what happened is real and it's comforting, and I can hardly feel the cold of the beach. I can see the pictures and see myself as an incredibly young girl in boots and a puffy coat, no blood, no tears, taken by my mother who loves me. The memory is drenched in distant feelings I couldn't recognize at the time, and wouldn't recognize until years later. But the memory is wrapped in absolute love despite the blood and tears, and I am back on the beach, so small and bloody and crying but so happy and not alone.