Although the day has mostly been lost, I have a clear memory of the morning of my first day of school. For months my parents had walked with me to my elementary school, just one block away. Usually they tried to excite me by mentioning the playground and swing sets just a short distance away, but it was clear they had ulterior motives. I passively accepted the compact for the opportunity to play and speak with my wise parents about why those cracks were cut into the sidewalk, knowing full well I was being trained to cross two streets and walk the entire block by myself. But on the morning of that first day of school in 1986, the jig was up. I wasn’t walking, I was crying until I got a ride.

Months later, I had made good friends at school and had more confidence in my walking abilities. I had heard the phrase “look both ways before crossing the street” more times than I could count on my 10 toes and 10 fingers.

When a street came along, I looked and looked hard. But in another few months, in a neighborhood where only five cars would pass in an hour, I became lazier in my sideways glances. This was when I made a mistake I never repeated, a mistake that made me swear not to make mistakes again.

At around 5:30 one evening, I left my friend’s house that lay a mere 50 feet from my own. Within those 50 feet lay a concrete river and a long row of cars on the shore nearest me. I looked ahead and looked to my right and my left.

There were no obstacles in sight, and so I launched all three feet of bones, blood and skin toward the yellow line and the curb beyond. Suddenly, I was ambushed within my blind spot.

I experienced the Doppler effect first hand, as the horn and screeching of disc brakes, rubber and concrete melted together in a crescendo. I was too scared to contribute to the song, but let my eyes grow in time with the rubber tracks.

Just as one beat stopped, I heard doors swing open and watched my father pound his bare feet onto the sidewalk and toward me, faster than I had imagined he could move. Although the crimson blur of the oncoming car now lie in definition a few feet away from me, leaving me standing, I was soon lifted into the air and tossed upon the grass. Above me, my father stood in shock, neither of us knowing what to say.

Parents, teachers and friends of both can remind you how to cross a street, but no one explains what to say when you forget. The young woman who had piloted the steel machine that pardoned me ran over to us, and all I could do was repeat the words “I’m sorry!” at the top of my lungs.

Somehow, I knew that I had almost left her with memorial scars deeper than my own, but could say nothing more.

In the following days, I heard every possible variation on directions for crossing streets from every variation of acquaintance. I knew it was my own fault I had nearly ended my life. I knew that across those two streets and one block away a memorial looked over me with a smooth stone relief of a boy who had followed my accidental path through to a different end. All you can tell each of these people and yourself is that you’re sorry.

Although it was a simple mistake I made when ignoring that one red car, it became an all-consuming magnanimity too great for my 6-year old mind. If I could screw up a few simple directions and put my life at risk, I knew that there must be similar pitfalls laying in wait.

I wouldn’t make mistakes on my math problems, I wouldn’t mix different colors of socks, and I wouldn’t forget anything. But I did make mistakes, and I berated myself with an intensity greater that any “oops” sticker could hold on a failed assignment.

After several years, I learned that these things weren’t so important, but still carry elements of guilt today. A few poorly chosen steps lead me on a path to feeling apology as strongly as it had been felt. I’ve grown to recognize what was an unhealthy reaction and have been able to purge its effects.

We all feel these moments, and now I understand that life is life and to enjoy even the worst moments of it.

One day, I will likely have children of my own, and I don’t know how I will teach them the lessons I have learned. Sometimes those first memories of innocent times can put an end to that innocence.

Maybe instead of teaching them how to remember, I’ll teach them how to forget.