Who Is This Child?

15 08 2010

me27

I vaguely remember her. And her dog Puddles. I didn’t remember the naked doll until I saw it again. But those saddle shoes? I’d remember them anywhere. They’re the ones she was wearing when she stepped on a rusty safety pin. When they had to pull the safety pin out of the sole of the shoe so they could take her to the doctor to have a tetanus shot. It would have been easier if she had been barefoot, the way she always wanted to be.

Me. Forgotten memories. The photos bring some of them back. The photos that ended up in my virtual lap one day. The photos that were carelessly recorded by a brother discarded. Can’t I ever get rid of him?

me10

What if I had let go? They would have blamed me — just like they always did. I was the oldest, the most responsible, the one who knew better. Still am. Still do.

me33

But it only took “this” long to be slammed back in time. The photos. Is this why photos are so important to me? Is this the only thing tethering me to any memories I have? I am indeed the archivist.

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