Monday, January 2, 2017


While biking to dinner, I call out to Tony, "Wait. I have to take a photo. I found my favorite matchbox car from my childhood."

He doesn't hear, " favorite matchbox car," and that's okay because it feels a little private, tucked away with all the other secrets of childhood; like the cans of sweetened condensed milk I would open and hide under my bed to slurp slowly over time. Or the Christmas presents I unwrapped the minute Mom pulled out of the driveway, or the time I was mean to a cousin for no reason at all. Meaningful moments and moments of regret. All part of childhood. All part of life's equation.

I once had a friend, and cannot remember who he was, who couldn't remember his childhood. Without childhood memories, there would be a huge void in my life. They come frequently to me, like soft winds that brush one's cheek, and as the years pass, they become more real, more prevalent, as if I am becoming part of my own time capsule. Perhaps I have started seeing the connection and formation of who I am today.

I cherish these reminders like the orange Volkswagen. They are triggers that allow me to crawl back into the playhouse Santa brought us for Christmas, or back onto the boat-bed that floated aimlessly in the middle of a turbulent sea. They remind me that I am constantly taking in and storing my surroundings, my actions and interactions with people. That I am responsible to my future thoughts, that they may even hold me hostage. That I may relive my life over and again, helps me to consciously create and act in ways so when those triggers do come, the memories will be accompanied with a smile on my face.