My early memories were that of cold and darkness. The shadow of my mother’s face pressed close to mine. Her whispered goodbyes when she left me. My father waiting for her return. My own cries when I realized they wouldn’t return.
The memory of warmth soon followed. The feeling of being held in someone’s arms. My memory of being rescued from the cold and loneliness of abandonment. Those memories began to fade as I grew. The truth of my parentage overshadowed by passing time. My name is Buckminster, or Buck for short. This is my story.