My first memory

It's not true, the memory, that I ever flew down the tree house on a child's tricycle when i was young. I never giggled, I never saw my legs sticking up in the air as the pedals spun a blur of yellow and red while the ground flew by and the forests of pines drew quicker as I neared the end of the ramp leading up to the giant tree fort located in front of the log cabin in the hills that my father built as well. It never happened. The picture of my brothers and I (that rests in the bins of pictures mother has closed up underneath the drawers where the place mats for the living room table go when know one is in need of eating) standing, smiling with our hands atop each others shoulders, in front of the tree fort with the ramp extending behind us. It was never real. An apparent artificial memory. According to the big bother, or brother (my apologies) that was of an age that memory recalls more adequately, the ramp was never ours. It never belonged to the tree fort my father built. It was an addition put on by the new owners who's children have memory of flying down the tree house ramp on their tricycle, giggling, legs in the air, watching the pedals spin a blur of colors while the ground goes by and the forest of pines draws close.