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Recollections photo album5/21/2023 Beside each photo slot, I wrote “My birthday party (8 years old)!!!” With each page, my handwriting gets a little sloppier, and the 8s start looking more like ampersands. It holds all the photos my sister printed from the stack of disposable cameras she ran through that day. I find myself flipping through that baby blue album very often. It’s 2012 and I’m surrounded by my friends and family, seeing the world through my turquoise wireframe glasses. I can see where everyone is sitting around me, and as I feel the cold February breeze rushing through from the crack under the door, it’s like I’m turning 8 again. It turns out to be a baby blue photo album, embroidered with orange songbirds and white vines. I’m unwrapping a gift that appears to be some sort of book. My friends are all surrounding me, and my sister is standing over us, looking through a green disposable camera. My name is lettered beautifully on others, and sometimes my friends would write one of the nicknames they had for me in between small parentheses.Įvery time I browse through my piles of envelopes, and gift cards I already spent, I can see myself sitting in my living room at my 8th birthday party. It’s spelled incorrectly on some, and the “y”s in my name are replaced with “i”s that are dotted with little hearts. I like to look at the way my name was written on each envelope. I have held on to every birthday card I’ve received and the envelopes they came in. I became obsessed with assigning a tangible object to every memory because I thought it would help me stop my happiest moments from fading into vague recollections. I must have been 6 or 7 years old when I started scrapbooking, and my construction paper, painted purple with an Elmer’s glue stick, became a canvas for the materialization of my memories. I’ve always considered myself to be a sentimental person.
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