Now while I understand that everyone who lives to be my age (29) was at one point in time 16 (or for that matter 17), sometimes I wonder if the memories that others have of this time period are as disturbing and displacing as mine are.
That picture up there? That is me. Oh well, I'm the girl (obviously) and the boy? Well he is of no primary importance. Although, he was of utmost importance for around 3-1/2 years of my teenage existence.
I don't remember ever receiving this picture. I don't remember this picture being taken. But I remember me. I remember him. And as such, I received it at some point as a gift from the boy illustrated above, who I seem to have locked lips with. He, as is apparent by the scrawls on the back, was in some sort of love with me.
I must say, remembering, it makes my skin crawl. Should it be that remembering one's teenage years causes such a revulsion? Or perhaps it is just remembering this him, this nameless he-person that affected my life so miserably for so many years.
It was long ago, 13 years at most, 12 years at least, since this picture. I found it, face-up, in the middle of my living room floor. I haven't the foggiest idea how it got there, but I imagine that one of my children (in the hustle and bustle and lag times of weekend life) found this picture amongst others and exiled it to the center of my living room carpet.
I don't ever remember this picture being taken, as I said. That perturbs me. Here I have a most (ominous as it feels) literal memoir of my past, yet it seems to have never existed, this moment in time, for me.
I imagine it was taken in a cemetary in Littleton, CO. I imagine, I cannot be wholly certain.
I am entirely uncomfortable with it's presence and as such, my ownership of it. But I am drawn to it, searching the far-reaches of my mind, seeking out what I have long left behind.
Is that not odd?
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