The human mind conflates. It makes scattered memories one, binding all life's pages into individual books.
There is a book in my head called The Day On The Bleachers. In that chunk of memory is a combination of all the days I used to sit there, with sun or cloud, rain or dusty breeze. The people I saw, the games played, the teasing and jostling for space — these and more, like snowflakes in a snowglobe.
And there is always that one young lady, who still lives, but will never be that young lady again.