At the age of 9 and finishing up the fourth grade, I was already thinking about legacies. My grandmother had crossed the starting line on her race toward Alzheimer’s and my sister was passing her own milestones into the strange world of high school. I could see the frailness of the world around me in the smallest of ways, like the first time my grandma called me “Dougie.” Doug is my Uncle. Already my brain was beginning its obsession with capturing single moments forever by attempting to preserve even the most trivial memories.
I developed a habit of jotting down anything and everything. In time, the words on the backs of my hands resembled complex road maps of ink paved streets. I also had loose paper scraps in every corner of my room filled
I developed a habit of jotting down anything and everything. In time, the words on the backs of my hands resembled complex road maps of ink paved streets. I also had loose paper scraps in every corner of my room filled