I look at things and have this familiar feeling that it means something. I push my brain and strive to remember. The names of my dolls. The handwriting on old letters. The pictures of people that have my nose or my hair. And my mother. Finding her pictures. Learning what kind of books she enjoyed. The stuff she knitted.
It's odd. And as much as I sometimes want to leave it all behind and start anew and on my own, the fact is that's where I come from. I should give it a chance. Even if it's painful to remember.