We have all heard them before: the stories
our parents tell us about ourselves when we were younger. The same stories over
and over again. Moments we remember through
memories other than our own.
“You used to cry when you saw the
mountains. You said the trees were tall
and scary.”
“You would open all the cabinet doors. You would close all the cabinet doors. You were the cabinet Nazi.”
I would always wonder why they would laugh
each time they recalled the silliness. What
is so nostalgic about a kid who fixates over cabinets?
35 years later I figured it out.
The stories were never about me. They were
about themselves, as they saw the world a lifetime ago.
“You were adorable.”
