“Find your own nostalgia.” I retrieved the vinyl from my daughter’s hands. “And before your mother says so, you should know no one is too young not to nurse a nostalgic memory.”
My daughter toddled towards the box we found in our almost-attic. She was between destroying things and making those her own.
If I could play the vinyl, it would croon, “I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, Hey... I oughta leave young thing alone…”. I pound my chest to the beat, the way I would always do subconsciously—my fist went to the space wherefrom our memories send “Dear John” to the person time makes out of us.
I hummed to my daughter, “You know, I stumbled over the stacks of uncle’s pop records, and because those were kept away from me, because I was full of pimples, I imagined the most prohibited secrets dwelling in the vinyl. I dusted my uncle’s turntable and plugged it in.
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