My memory of childhood has little to do with black and white Kodak moments printed on glossy photographic paper. Those images, framed in white deckle, are family memories. They are copies of the updates shared with grandparents, aunts, uncles and old friends. Mother sent them off enclosed with her cards and letters keeping everyone up…
After my mother died, I discovered some random photos tucked away in her desk. A small packet of memories carefully wrapped in an envelope worn soft from frequent use, with a little bit of cardboard to keep them flat, they were photographs of my late stepfather’s family. Gerhard kept them handy in case anyone thought…
I sit scrunched down on the old rough boards of the front porch cutting out clothes for my paper doll. My tongue is curled tense against the corner of my mouth trying to be helpful, as I carefully manipulate the stupid blunt-nosed scissors. My thumb keeps getting stuck in the stupid hole, and the stupid…