I have a memory of my grandmother, sitting in her armchair relaxing. She has a boa constrictor draped over her shoulders. The snake isn’t doing much or reacting to anything. Its face is cool and impassive and its body has twists and turns like a river. My grandmother is tilting her head back and laughing.

“That definitely didn’t happen,” my mother says when I share the memory with her.

“Are you sure?” I ask. “It seems like a really clear memory.”

“Maybe it was a garter snake?”

I shake my head. “No, it was a really big snake.”

“Was it a feather boa?”

“No! It was definitely a snake.”

“Well, I don’t remember that at all,” my mother says decisively.

I’m confused. I often wonder about whether or not I imagined it until one of my cousins tells me that he remembers the snake, too.