Summer in Spain from Diana Le on Vimeo.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Monday, August 16, 2010
The Bigger Picture
When I was a kid, my mom worked the morning shift. Being the misanthropist that she is, babysitters were untrustworthy and out of the question. So, I spent my summers at my dad’s office. I obediently sorted through receipts and alphabetized files until I encircled myself with neat stacks of contentment. Eventually, my parents found other ways for me to spend my summers. I spent one summer at my cousin’s house, watching Jen and Chris taunt the twins. We walked to Del Taco for lunch every day. The next summer, my uncle opened a dojo, and I watched my cousins learn karate. (I was obviously never one for participating.) Soon, my mom switched to an afternoon shift, and by then, I was old enough to be home alone.
I’ve sporadically visited his office since then, but it always seems with a heavy passage of time that I return. His officemate has two more kids than I remember. She’s going through a messy separation. My uncle looks the same, except simultaneously older and younger than I remember: younger because he doesn’t have a mustache anymore, so when he smiles, his whole face brightens up, and older because that bright smile reminds me so much of my grandfather.
Every time I come in, I see the same picture of me, unframed, taped to his wall. I’m nine years old, wearing a pink dress, plumper than the yellow Pikachu I’m holding. Seeing it hits every sentimental bone in my body. Among the post-its of scribbled phone numbers and notes is a picture of me bearing an embarrassing resemblance to a cherub.
In the interim, I’m working at his office while his coworker is on vacation. While cleaning his office, I went to close a cabinet door that was left open and noticed a framed picture of my late stepmother and tucked into the side of the frame is a picture of her and my father. I opened the other cabinet door to find a family portrait of my father, mother, brother and myself. My dad was never one for extreme sentiment, or sentiment at all, so it seemed. It was a nice surprise.
I’ve sporadically visited his office since then, but it always seems with a heavy passage of time that I return. His officemate has two more kids than I remember. She’s going through a messy separation. My uncle looks the same, except simultaneously older and younger than I remember: younger because he doesn’t have a mustache anymore, so when he smiles, his whole face brightens up, and older because that bright smile reminds me so much of my grandfather.
Every time I come in, I see the same picture of me, unframed, taped to his wall. I’m nine years old, wearing a pink dress, plumper than the yellow Pikachu I’m holding. Seeing it hits every sentimental bone in my body. Among the post-its of scribbled phone numbers and notes is a picture of me bearing an embarrassing resemblance to a cherub.
In the interim, I’m working at his office while his coworker is on vacation. While cleaning his office, I went to close a cabinet door that was left open and noticed a framed picture of my late stepmother and tucked into the side of the frame is a picture of her and my father. I opened the other cabinet door to find a family portrait of my father, mother, brother and myself. My dad was never one for extreme sentiment, or sentiment at all, so it seemed. It was a nice surprise.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
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