I can't think of anything particularly clever today, so I'll just share with you a passage from Deadeye Dick by Kurt Vonnegut. The main character is talking about his mother at one point and says:
It turned out she had a traumatic experience with termites in childhood, which she had never mentioned to me. She had suppressed the memory all those years, but now she told me, full of horror, of walking into the music room of her father's mansion which she had believed to be so indestuctable when she was a little girl, and seeing what looked like foam, boiling out the floor and a baseboard near the grand piano, and out of the legs and keyboard of the piano itself.
"There were billions and billions of bugs with shiny wings, acting for all the world like a liquid" she said. "I ran and got Father. He couldn't believe his eyes either. Nobody had played the piano for years. If somebody had played it, maybe it would have driven the bugs out of there. Father gave the piano leg a little kick and it crumpled like it was made out of cardboard. The piano fell down."
This was clearly one of the most memorable events of her whole life, and I had never heard of it before.
If she had died in childhood, she would have remembered life as the place you went, in case you wanted to see bugs eat a grand piano.
