Photo
The child in the photo is
a stranger
He didn't know me
As I didn't know him
Growing up has its benefits. At 10 you can ride that carnival ride you always wanted to. 13 you get more respect. 16 you can drive and 18 you're a new adult. But it's also shit.
I have a desk drawer in my room that holds tangible memories of my childhood. With all of the room changing and clean-ups over the years, many things I made from infancy to now have been lost. Which is why I am hesitant to throw away art and school projects. It's filled with journals, school art projects, doodles, files, papers, things my sister and I wrote for play, etc. It's a small collection, though, and it leaves many holes which nobody has the good enough memory to fill.
A couple of weeks ago my sister and I were looking through that drawer. We went up to the attic where we had put all of our stuffed animals that we had little want for now. It was the first time I had cried for a while, and first time my sister had hugged me when I did so. It was awkward because I didn't hug back, or maybe vice versa. I dunno.
It just hurts sometimes to look back on stuff. It's not even like I want to go back. Maybe it's all the things I regret I did, or the things I regret I did not. Maybe I see how oblivious I was to the world and its problems, or the stupid things my sister and I spent hours, days, weeks on. Or maybe it's just that those things are now gone.