Shuffling through the twelve photos of my childhood, I stared at the unfamiliar child in the image throughout the night and dreamed of nothing but sour lemons and swingsets. In one photo, a bubble-cheeked baby puckering her face with a slice of lemon in her small hand just appeared cute but didn’t create the sudden nostalgic comfort that would come ordinarily. It’d be ridiculous to think I would remember such a moment so young, but I wanted one of them to spark something in me. In the next photo, a pudgy toddler is being pushed on the swingset by a young Joseph Mardas in rolled-up sleeves and jeans, his hair cut short, almost to his scalp.
Can I remember a time when Dad had such short hair? No, I could not.
A picture of me on my first day of kindergarten with my mother, Heather Brooksha
