Volume VI: The Way it Was
A photo essay of chubby cheeks and bad handwriting
Our parents aren’t exactly sentimental. We both have fast-paced mothers who have focused on driving us further forward rather than reminiscing on who we used to be. However, as we approach the age closer to where they were when they had us than who we used to be, looking back helps give a sense of what lies ahead. We’ll take what little comfort we can get.
Sissy
Amongst the torn camping gear, neon 90s ski suit, and mouse shit my dad found cleaning out the crawl space was a box “memorabilia”. I always assumed my parents threw everything out. Not in a “they hate us” sort of way, but they’ve never been a fan of “stuff”. But there it was. Every report card, every poem, every book report, and of course locks of hair. I was surprised, but the best part wasn’t the box and the nostalgia inside. The best part was opening a bottle of wine with all five of us home and going around the horn looking at every memory coming out of the big, blue rubbermaid tub. Laughing, crying, feeling the way it was. The only improvement would've been if we were sitting on the old red chenille sectional (RIP).
Andri
Since my parents moved, sorting through old memorabilia has been a delicate task. All photos and memories, stored in a house that I didn’t come familiar with until my late teens. After the recent inauguration of a senile dictator and my final move out of D.C., the inevitable decision was made earlier this year to clear out the Virginia storage unit - packed up after the sale of my childhood home.
Bits of the past have since crept into the Cape house. A forgotten picture placed on the wall, an old lamp replacing a newer one in my bedroom. The basement now holds bins of Moroccan brass trays from one of dad’s dream ventures, photos of my parents with goats and world leaders across Africa, and the “Andri Box”: my childhood placed in a container. It’s contents: The English Roses by Madonna, tiny t-shirts worn to shreds, early writing samples, pieces of a smaller me that longed for the days of when she would be grown up, pretty, and cool (Leo energy shining through at a very young age). Sifting through it all, something inside me settled.
I think I always subconsciously resented my parents for selling the Quantico Street house. While it made sense for them, I selfishly envied friends who could return to rooms that still remembered them. And yet, going through the relics reminded me, the house may have changed, but the family didn’t. A “Moloney-Kitts” home is never complete without a photo gallery that climbs the stairs and flowers clipped from the garden snuck into every room.
Cultural Digest:
Reading:
Andri: Messalina: Empress, Adulteress, Libertine: The Story of the Most Notorious Woman of the Roman World by Honor Cargill-Martin
Sissy: Everything is Tuberculosis by John Green
Watching:
Andri: The Valley
Sissy: Capote (RIP PSH)
Listening to:
Andri: What Was That by Lorde and The Valley Recaps by Sexy Unique Podcast
Sissy: Headphones On by Addison Rae
Most tragic relic lost to time:
Andri: My 5 childhood cats that all went missing or died because my mom insisted on them being allowed out doors despite us living next to one of the busiest roads in Arlington (pictured above).
Sissy: 1. Atlantis the lost city 2. My mom’s entire wardrobe from the 80s/90s
Fantastic stuff!
Who's crying? Not me. Xoxoxo