As far as I can tell, there are two different ways to determine whether you’re truly an adult. The first is that you can only swing for thirty-five seconds before throwing up, and the second is that when your parents come to visit, they begin to leave things behind.
Now, I use the the term “things” pretty loosely, here. I’m not talking about when you were in college and your parents would drive out on a Sunday, carefully pretend not to notice that you’d shoved all of your illegally acquired items into the closet right before they arrived, and then take you to Target for some celebratory ramen and mascara. I’m referring to those things that you can’t consume. Mementos. Your childhood in the form of old rag dolls and ancient French textbooks. For example, every time my parents come to visit, they leave behind at least three big boxes full of books. If you’ve ever had to move books, you know that they are heavy, so once the boxes are parked on the living room floor, they’re destined to stay there for a minimum of three weeks. (Or possibly until I die.)
I equate these books with rodents. Leave them unattended for too long and they begin to multiply.
Dylan, who would at some point like to have his living room back, was going through the boxes the other day and discovered an ancient Kelsey artifact. Buried amidst my ninth grade report cards and a bookmark emblazoned with the word ~*imagine*~ was my journal from first grade.
Throughout my life, I’ve wanted to be many things. A singer. A teacher. A National Geographic photographer. (Most notably, I wanted to be named Katie.) The one constant, though, is that I’ve wanted to write. Even at six years old, I had stories to tell.
“I dug in my garden to China. It was hard work but it was fun. I knew how to talk Chinese. It took me five years to learn how to talk Chinese.”
As you can see, entry illustrates both my love of foreign languages and my sweet green and yellow sweater.
“I have an invisible horse. He likes me. I am good with him. I found him in the Western.”
But where did I find that awesome hat?
“I have a hamster at my house. He is cute. He is fun to play with. He died. I am sad.”
Something about this journal entry reads as very Postmodern to me. Regardless of its categorization, I think we can all agree that it is pure literary genius.
“There was this lady in my mailbox. She scared me. She was skinny.”
Um. What exactly was I trying to illustrate, here?
(Maybe I’m not an adult after all.)