By Juliana Marfa
Edited by Alloe Mak
My parents keep my baby photos in countless envelopes. Inside big cardboard boxes and plastic storage containers, they are stored away in the walk-in closet. Every now and then, I revisit both them and who I once was, descending into a state of nostalgia and longing as I look at memories from the vault that I forgot were already stored in my mind.
When I think of childhood, I think of the pink hue of summer sunsets. As the sky gained its fuschia tint, my family and I ate ice cream truck soft serves. I think of sticky arms from melted sweetness dripping down my arms and the small napkin crumpled up in my mother’s hand as she unsuccessfully attempted to clean me up.
I remember riding into crepuscular skies on my bike. I was always a late learner, constantly learning lessons the hard way. Learning how to ride my bike was no different. In this case, my helmet barely fit, and I forced my parents to buy protective gear in an attempt to prevent the tiniest scratch. The scars on my knees still mark grazes of childhood summers. Falling on hot pavement, small pebbles left imprints on the hands that caught me. I never forget to tie my shoelaces anymore, still tying them the way I did when I first learned how to loop, loop around, tuck under, and pull. I no longer remember the funny feeling of my toes being squished and angled the wrong way when I used to put my left shoe on my right foot.
I would miss that pink hue when the sun would spill in through the curtains at 7 a.m. I always dreaded being woken up. Sweet dreams pinned me to my bed, and my parents always struggled to pry me away. Falling asleep was almost as difficult. A bedtime story, drinking warm milk in a mug, and being enveloped in my father’s big arms never really worked. But all would be okay when I’d climb into bed with my parents. We were sticky with sweat under the thick sheets with nothing but a measly fan to keep us cool, but I didn’t care. I could’ve stayed in bed with them forever.
Baby photos of the seniors are featured in my highschool yearbook. The deadline to submit is approaching quickly and all my friends have been showing me the photos that they’re going to submit. One-year-olds wearing dad’s shoes, 10 sizes too big. Short hair is tied into little pigtails, wispy bangs escaping and blowing in their eyes. Big cheeks, big eyes, soft features, skin folds. Toddlers in princess crowns and plastic heels, beaded bracelets dangling on their wrists, clashing with the cheap, plastic, silver bangles.
This is the beginning of the ticking time bomb. This year, we are eighteen. I swear I woke up sixteen this morning. A melancholy feeling swells up inside me as I sit cross-legged on the floor with baby photos in my lap. I am surrounded by countless envelopes, the way they came when they were developed from the film cameras years ago.
The pink hue of summer sunsets still follows me today. As the sky gains its fuschia tint, the friends that I have turned into family hold each other with warm hearts. I watch crepuscular skies from school fields, other people’s windows, and the backseats of cars that are not my own. I have more scars now than before, bringing my childhood stories around with me.
I still miss that pink hue when the sun spills in through the curtains at 7a.m, I still dread being woken up. Dreams continue to pin me to my bed, though sometimes they are overpowered by nightmares. Fear of the future makes it difficult to pry me off my bed. It’s a feeling that a bedtime story, drinking warm milk in a mug, and being enveloped in my parents’ arms won’t cure.
In memoriam of who I once was, I attempt to bring her back some days. I hang out with the people that bring back my inner child, I see them through my piano students, and the kindergartens on the bus remind me of her. Suddenly, my high-pitched giggles return, the guilt that comes with eating ice cream disappears, and things become exciting again. I become the child I once was and the future becomes less terrifying.
It pains me to see my dad long for my baby breath.
It pains me to see how well I fit into my mom’s high heels.
It pains me that I will never be who I once was.
And though I no longer embody puerility,
I still carry her around with me.