The top of my office bookshelf is a gallery
of first-grade me dressed as Alice in Wonderland
for Halloween,
dogs I loved,
my parents,
my high school senior picture,
and a collage of my married years.
My lives before this life.
Walking through my quiet house,
I see my children as toddlers sitting on my lap,
teens with blue hair,
young adults in caps and gowns
wielding college diplomas.
The sister I shared a room with.
My nephew on his wedding day.
School pictures of his son.
Reminders that time has passed
and these snapshots tell my story.
Yet it seems
I’m looking at someone else’s life.
Years create a distance.
My younger self feels vague, unfamiliar.
I’m dressed in clothes I’d never wear now,
sit smiling in distant rooms.
I am this moment,
the sun shining through my office window,
warming my back,
fading the sea-blue wall pastel,
memories and old photos also fading.
