It’s about the narrator, dummy.

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.”