Family | Relationships | Memoir
Grandma Says the Photo Isn’t of Her
She’s lying, but why?
Dust coated the blue lid of a plastic storage tub I found under my dresser. Disgusting. How long was this container hidden in my room, and why was it so dirty?
“I should clean this before I open it,” I mumbled, hoping tiny dust mites didn’t float through the air.
But I didn’t. Instead, I propped the blue lid in the corner of my bedroom and carried the tub to my bed. Sorting through old photos and trinkets could take a while, and I wanted to be comfortable.
It was a wasted effort, really. My neck aches, and my vision blurs and doubles from too much “near work,” as my neuro-optometrist calls it, but my worst pains aren’t physical. I’ve always been nostalgic, but sometimes unearthing old memories makes me uneasy. Some moments — and people — are better left forgotten.
I don’t remember this as I’m sorting through old photos, at least not at first. I was happy with the memories I discovered.
A stack of Polaroids was tossed carelessly over rows of 3x5 and 4x6 photos, scattered like my brain during a panic attack. I laughed as I found photo after photo of my friends and me wearing the same Tommy Hilfiger shirts in different colors. Like us, many older…
