falling out or when so many folks had been crossed out because either they’d moved too many times or their number had changed so many times, which meant it had probably been disconnected for nonpayment—mine included—and sometimes I had to look in my own phone book to remember my new number. I always wrote the date the new book started and ended on the back cover with a Magic Marker, which is why I never bought a black book. I put my current address on the inside page so I’d be able to remember where I’d lived when I got old and nostalgic like I’m feeling now. Last but not least were the people I just wanted out of my fucking life for one reason or another, so I’d either draw lines through their names or a wide X or scribble so hard I’d sometimes rip right through the page and shred the person on the other side. This left many a phone book looking more like a scratch pad. Which is what forced me to buy a new one.
Times have sure changed.
As I grow older, I realize there’s something to be said for nostalgia and not getting rid of stuff that holds memories, which is pretty much your personal anthropology and can document your evolution on so many levels. The same can also be said for all the photographs. I separated them by what I called my Wonder Years from all the branches and leaves that constituted my entire family. I have some cracked black-and-white photos of my grandparents’ grandparents, who were slaves in Alabama and Mississippi. For stupid reasons I tossed my yearbooks a long time ago. I didn’t want to remember those folks, and I also hated my pictures. I was not even close to cute when I was young. This was, of course, before I discovered makeup. And I don’t want to question my hairstyles back then, because it’ll just make me think about headbands.
—
I go downstairs to the guest room and open the closet. And there’s the cheap black trunk I took with me when I went away to college. Before I can slide it out, I have to move two big red boxes that hold all my special Christmas ornaments. I haven’t had a tree in two years, since Frankie’s been at NYU. I’m not feeling like a tree this year either. Santa doesn’t stop at my house anymore. I still leave my porch light on at Halloween, because I don’t ever want to think I’ve given away my last treats.
I figure I should probably get a little buzz to do this. And as much as I would love it if Wanda and Violet were here so we could stroll down memory lane together, I probably need to do this alone. Plus, they don’t know everything I did or who I did it with. They only think they do. After I slide the trunk and a few boxes across this purple carpet, I run upstairs and pick out a decent enough bottle of chardonnay and grab a cheap wineglass and run back downstairs. I pour myself a glass and drink half of it standing up. I turn the intercom to Pandora, not really caring what genre it is, but as soon as I hear “Single Ladies” by Beyoncé, I do know I’m not in the mood for hip-hop, so I turn it to the channel that plays music that makes you feel like you’re either floating in space or underwater. I kick off my Uggs and sit on the floor right in front of the closet door that now may never close until I move out of this house.
I reach over and lift the top of the trunk and look down inside and am shocked at how neat everything is. The first thing I grab is a big Ziploc that’s full of cards and letters. Since my mother never wrote me any letters, I know these are either to or from some of
Them.
I toss this over near the blue bed. I have a feeling this is going to be fun.
My cell phone shivers on the carpet.
I pick it up. It’s my oldest.
“Hi, Mom. What are you doing?”
I don’t really know how to answer that, and I hate it when people ask me. What if you’re not doing anything? Then you have to explain how you do nothing. But I also don’t want to tell Estelle the truth. So I lie. “I’m reading.”
“What are you
Times have sure changed.
As I grow older, I realize there’s something to be said for nostalgia and not getting rid of stuff that holds memories, which is pretty much your personal anthropology and can document your evolution on so many levels. The same can also be said for all the photographs. I separated them by what I called my Wonder Years from all the branches and leaves that constituted my entire family. I have some cracked black-and-white photos of my grandparents’ grandparents, who were slaves in Alabama and Mississippi. For stupid reasons I tossed my yearbooks a long time ago. I didn’t want to remember those folks, and I also hated my pictures. I was not even close to cute when I was young. This was, of course, before I discovered makeup. And I don’t want to question my hairstyles back then, because it’ll just make me think about headbands.
—
I go downstairs to the guest room and open the closet. And there’s the cheap black trunk I took with me when I went away to college. Before I can slide it out, I have to move two big red boxes that hold all my special Christmas ornaments. I haven’t had a tree in two years, since Frankie’s been at NYU. I’m not feeling like a tree this year either. Santa doesn’t stop at my house anymore. I still leave my porch light on at Halloween, because I don’t ever want to think I’ve given away my last treats.
I figure I should probably get a little buzz to do this. And as much as I would love it if Wanda and Violet were here so we could stroll down memory lane together, I probably need to do this alone. Plus, they don’t know everything I did or who I did it with. They only think they do. After I slide the trunk and a few boxes across this purple carpet, I run upstairs and pick out a decent enough bottle of chardonnay and grab a cheap wineglass and run back downstairs. I pour myself a glass and drink half of it standing up. I turn the intercom to Pandora, not really caring what genre it is, but as soon as I hear “Single Ladies” by Beyoncé, I do know I’m not in the mood for hip-hop, so I turn it to the channel that plays music that makes you feel like you’re either floating in space or underwater. I kick off my Uggs and sit on the floor right in front of the closet door that now may never close until I move out of this house.
I reach over and lift the top of the trunk and look down inside and am shocked at how neat everything is. The first thing I grab is a big Ziploc that’s full of cards and letters. Since my mother never wrote me any letters, I know these are either to or from some of
Them.
I toss this over near the blue bed. I have a feeling this is going to be fun.
My cell phone shivers on the carpet.
I pick it up. It’s my oldest.
“Hi, Mom. What are you doing?”
I don’t really know how to answer that, and I hate it when people ask me. What if you’re not doing anything? Then you have to explain how you do nothing. But I also don’t want to tell Estelle the truth. So I lie. “I’m reading.”
“What are you
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