The attics challenged this notion of memories held in suspended animation, for they were full to overflowing with things I was supposed to recognize as belonging to myself, yet everything was all wrong. It was the wrong shape, the wrong color, the wrong size, the wrong item altogether, so it must be somebody else's past, some other accidental life living in this space that I wasn't forbidden from but wasn't really supposed to be in, this maze of memories held by someone who wasn't me. That summer I hid in the attics for hours, determined to find the person responsible for all these items, the mysterious suitcases and animal cages and nightgowns and musical instruments and aquariums and strollers and chairs.
reading about relativity
weather : the scent of peonies, all about