"It happened on a Sunday when my mother was escorting my twin brother and me down the steps of the tenement where we lived. We were going to church. While walking down the hallway to the entrance of the building, we heard an incredible crash mixed with screaming and cries for help. The accident involved three cars, all with families in them. Somehow, in the confusion, I was no longer holding my mother's hand. At the place where I stood at the curb, I could see something rolling from one of the overturned cars. It stopped at the curb where I stood. It was the head of a little girl. I bent down to touch the face, to speak to it -- but before I could touch it someone carried me away."
It is of course unlikely that a child would be unaffected by an event as such, especially one who may be (if there is such a thing) naturally inclined toward creating imagery. It is strange though, the visceral images that are adhered in our brains as adults, the most memorable experiences of our senses as children. They could both still feel the thick glue on their fingertips. She could recall the smell of her grandmother's attic. He could still feel the splinter beneath his foot. For me, I can still feel how I felt when I looked at the illustrations of Stephen Gammell, a midwestern neighbor. I remember how I felt every time I see something that reminds me of why I find beauty and intrigue in the things that I do.