She knew this couldn’t be it.  There must have been a time before the well and the birds dropping seeds down for her to eat.  She remembered the word mother and said it sometimes into the night, not knowing which of the pictures in her brain it belonged to.  Maybe mother was the man with the hat that lowered her down, she doesn’t know when.  She thought she was smaller then.  She couldn’t reach the red stone sticking from the wall, and then she could, and then she could stare at it straight on.  But even those marvels seemed a long way off.  Her sureness that she’d grow to the top to see where the birds lived and where they got their seeds, and the sadness of seeing her growing had stopped, it all seemed so far off, as she watched the sun walk across the sky each day, the memories of memory, like the taste of a whisper, coming back from a time when she knew where she was and why she was there.