This woman had lived on the 8th floor of my building for 50 years. She was always alone, and never smiled. All the neighbors avoided her because she could start a fight at any moment. Last month, she died. The police knocked on my door, telling me I should go up to her flat with them. As I entered, I got chills: I found my entire…childhood mapped out on her walls.
There were photos of neighborhood events, scribbled drawings I had made as a kid and taped on bulletin boards, and even an old music recital flyer with my name on it—carefully preserved in a glass frame. On her dusty bookshelf sat a box labeled with my initials. Inside were small trinkets I had lost over the years: a toy car, a friendship bracelet, a broken keychain. I was stunned. I barely remembered speaking to her as a child—but maybe I had, once or twice.
Be First to Comment