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These photo albums arrived in the mail.
Sent by my grandmother.

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03.96

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Vintage flip-up photo albums.
The way they opened.
The texture.
My name on the spine.

 
Vinta

I hadn’t seen most of these photographs before.
Were they taken before I could remember?
Before my memory began?

03.96







Fragments.
Familiar patterns.
Am I older than the person who took that photo?

The photos are fragments 
of my identity.
Fragments of myself.
Like a puzzle I can’t seem to solve.

 








A past handed to me.
Expected to be mine.
Even though I don’t see myself in it.

So then what are forgotten memories?
Just meaningless rooms we once occupied?