Most of my memories have no people in them

Organizing my stuffed animals, taking the pills in my doctor kit, riding my bicycle down long hallways, making footprints on the back of the front seat of the car, crying alone on my rocking chair, making a schedule for my Barbie's day, counting road markers, conducting school for my stuffed animals and giving them grades, riding my big wheel or wagon down the hill in front of the house and my crazy cart around the neighborhood, writing in my workbook in pink marker, finishing all the possible reading assignments, sitting under the teacher's desk, getting in trouble for talking (to whom?), digging a home for my Barbie in the back yard, playing with a cat, moving kittens into the garage, being afraid of a spider on my wall, starting on the huge stack of books from the library on Friday night, tracing the patterns on the map of scratches on the windowsill, pretending I have cancer, accidentally licking detergent off of the counter thinking it is sugar, sneaking spoons of sugar or maple syrup from the kitchen, cleaning up the house on Sunday morning before Wild Wild West, picking through the piles of mess in my room to get to the bed, reading Edgar Allen Poe under the covers with a flashlight, feeling depressed waiting for class to start, wondering why my mother is different when playing in the backyard, cleaning my room and finding cat feces and mold, doing flips onto my bed, doing gymnastics in the living room and perfecting the same routine over and over, pretending to be a character from Star Trek, dissecting each line of harmony in the piano pieces I practiced, eating alone in the dining room, taking frozen birthday cake out of the freezer, exploring the tunnels at a children's park, playing with my Little Professor, walking down the open lot behind our home, watching TV in the back room with a fast food dinner.