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How the Truth Converges

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My first memory as a child is dust and white, frilly socks. I can't remember people but I remember standing in the dust down south, and seeing my feet and those socks they put on very little girls, and being so little that I could very easily look UNDER the houses that were raised up on cinder blocks. I know now that I am remembering what used to be sharecroppers houses-turned black people's neighborhood. (I'm not that old).  I don't remember ever being in that place again.  The house changed when my grandmother moved.
     My younger brother also has memories of that place. Interestingly enough, our memories are not the same, even though we are really close together. Maybe  he saw different things than I did. He told me his memories and now I would argue that his memories are so closely interwoven with mine that they all belong to me now. Mine also belong to him. These have created a new, bigger remembrance of that place in deep Alabama.
        When I talk to m…