At The Bottom of the Fifth Box
There’s a non-zero chance I regret posting this publicly but frankly, this is far less vulnerable than weeping gently in naught but a paper gown all the way through a routine gynecological exam. Nothing and love and respect for my NP, who understood that losing an estranged father is difficult but rescheduling a routine check-up might just be worse. Sitting hunched in my mom’s basement alcove hurriedly sitting through photos was somehow even less comfortable, and I was clothed for that. At this point I’m convinced that my step-dad’s side of the family is the second-most photographed gaggle of Armenians in the contiguous United States. Two reusable grocery bags and three boxes are full to the brim with photo albums, film strips, and prints that span at least a hundred years and three continents worth of family history, none of which I can piece together other than what I was alive and present for. This is a task for another day. I was looking for a picture of me and my dad, the only one...