It’s a small thing.
A silly thing.
But I lost my past yesterday.
I mean, I still lived.
And people still remember me.
And I have some photos, of course.
But the box that I’ve stored
fifty years of
letters of recommendation
awards and commendations
anything hand-written or
We’ve moved so many times,
inhabited so many places,
lived so many lives,
I should’ve known this day would come.
But today I awoke and realized that
I don’t have that letter from my grandmother
or the map that my grandfather drew for me
or the book of short stories I made in the sixth grade
or my son’s first-grade poem.
I have no physical record of employment
to prove that I’ve ever done anything.
My past is only online
or in the memories of those around me.
Which is…oddly refreshing…
a tad bit scary…
that the whole of my past
what I remember and thought and felt
and lived these past fifty years
dies with me.