Persistence of Memory

When did that happen?

Sometimes friends say quite unfriendly things. Such as “All of the old-ass people your parents were friends with when you were a kid were like, in their thirties, dude”. A statement like that sends one screaming to the photo albums. The dust on the cover a warning in itself that ye should go no further, here there be lies in glorious kodachrome. The photos therein of people dressed for a party (and you somewhat remember calling these people Aunt and Uncle, though you are fairly certain you are not related) with a faint scribble in pen underneath the photo that says “Dave and Debbie, Halloween 1984”. Dave’s gorilla costume betrays no age but there is Debbie with nary a wrinkle. Reality goes soft around the edges. You once knew a Debbie? People were once called Debbie?? Who is named Debbie anymore!

My memory has trapped them in a wholly undeserving, protozoic bubble called “grownup”. Said with the same moue of distaste as “cankerworms”. Eastman-Kodak was much kinder. Apologies, Debbie.