A few weeks ago, my mom gave me a big Rubbermaid tub filled with what she likes to call my “treasures.” This is code for shit from your childhood that you left behind in your old room.
The other day, I decided to open up the tub. I didn’t find anything too exciting. There were some old magazines and toys and a manila folder labeled “Hot Hits” that contained playlists for a make-believe radio station that I had created sometime in the 80s. I had forgotten how lame cool I was back then.
A small box sat on the bottom of the tub. Inside was a silver and gold photo album with pictures from my wedding.
I showed them to W. She’s only seen one or two pictures from that day 20 some years ago.
“I don’t know that person,” she said.
“Yes, you do. It’s still me,” I replied confidently.
But really, I wasn’t sure.