Flipping Through Forgotten Memories

“Why do I do this to myself?”

A leather-bound time machine rests on the top shelf. Pulling it through the cobwebs, I rest it in my lap as I fall back into my favorite chair. I remember when Mom gave this to me. She found it while packing for a move. She thought it would be something I’d enjoy. I didn’t have the heart to tell her. Maybe I just didn’t want to have the conversation.

“Maybe this time?”

Dust tumbles off the cover as it cracks open. Old film and warm plastic wafts up. Old Polaroids rest in plastic like the lost in the ground. I rub my hand over the page protector, wishing for assistance from some ancient power.

“Just do it.”

Opening my eyes, I take in page after page of windows to the past. I stop on a random page. The picture in the top-left shows a little boy with a man whose hair isn’t so grey and his glasses not so thick. Looking at this grinning imp, he wears a red, beat-up ball cap. Dirt smears across one cheek, down to his chin. He holds up a catfish, still on the line. He looks so small next to that monster. The man, whose smile is bigger than the fish he’s holding, has an arm proudly wrapped around his grandson.

“Who are you?”

Fingers run along the face of the boy. A hint, like an itch that can’t be reached, ripples in the back of my head. Fingers absently run along a ditch hidden by hair. A reminder of an accident that was worse than anyone realized. Looking at the forgotten image, I know the boy is me. I know the man is Pop.

“Try another.”

Years flip by in an instant. When the pages catch their breath, another image jumps at me. The boy is back. His face is clean. He stands taller, more self-assured. That ratty cap still on his head. This stranger with my face leans back on the hood of a red SUV. A spark catches. That SUV. It was Mom’s. We called it… Big Red, after our favorite gum. A smile separates my cheeks.

“Wait… what am I remembering?”

The fire of recognition erupts into an inferno of uncertainty. The memory is clouded. Shutting my eyes, I try to see through the eyes of the boy in the picture. As they open, I’m not leaning on Big Red. I’m at Grandma’s house. A Christmas tree in the corner. Ham on the table. Mom and Uncle David are in the kitchen talking about cars. Mom tells a story about her favorite vehicle. A SUV her boys called Big Red.

“What did I expect?”

The fire douses under the weight of a storm. Drops of rain fall onto the page. Tearing away from the meaningless images, I close the book before any more rain threatens others’ memories. A sleeve brushes against my nose. A quick, hard blink ends the storm. A self-deprecating chuckle escapes my lips. A heavy sigh pulls me out of the chair. I slide the album back into its place.

“Maybe another day? Maybe.”