Memories of YouI hand the album to Mama, five years of photographs my sister Nancy and I assembled. I’m seventeen, Nancy twenty-one.
Five years of things Mama missed. I don’t know what I wanted. Love? Explanation? She smiles, a crooked smile. “You’ve grown so. Thank you, Nicholas.” “Nick is the preferred nomenclature.” “But I can’t have clutter. Take this, please.” “Move things.” She gives me a look, sea-blue eyes sorrowful. “Too many expectations.” Nan and I are living history, discarded. No niche. I grab the album, hurl it, let loose the weight of senseless dreams. I feel good and like the worst person.
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