my dad showed me pictures of his past, proof that he existed before today, long before anyone called him dad and he was given silly nicknames that he still talks about today in the car with songs he listened to at my age
he tells me about the impulsive decisions he made at my age and how those memories will last him a lifetime, even when some of the people in the stories didn’t make into his future but they live so beautiful in the polaroids and scribbled notes kept over these years
his friends are people I don’t recognize and the small town we both grew up in has changed so much but I can see the familiar tree in our backyard that’s been there my whole life — it’s smaller in this memory
they wear denim jackets in these photos and play guitars in garages of houses he can still point out to me if we drove past tomorrow
I decide that I want to have my own proof of the things I’ve done, evidence that I lived a life of my own, laughed with friends when nothing was funny, sat at the top of hills before sunset and watched the stars come out
my polaroid camera lives in the back of my closet and I brush off the dust it’s collected over the years, find extra film tossed in boxes meant for storage, and promise myself to remember these moments for the beauty they hold right now
I film the minutes that will be stories someday and bright flashes of cameras stun my vision and green eyes blink harshly from the blinding light
but I hold the memories in my hand, hear the laughter back and capture voices I know I’ll forget one day, I see my life laid out before me and it’s so different than the stories I heard growing up
and yet, something about it seems so familiar
