I stare at the boxes full of childhood junk. I open the nearest box to find countless drawings I had made in kindergarten. I pick up the top one, a crayon drawing of what was probably supposed to be an elephant. It’s wrinkled, smelling like an eternity of peanut butter sandwiches. I start to throw it in the trash, but instead I carefully place it on a nearby stool.
Picking up the next thing, I realize that it is drawn in angry red scribbles, depicting an apple. It’s teared, and stained. I turn it over, reading a much neater label, proclaiming it as an ‘emotion picture’. This one, I do throw in the trash, crumpling it into a ball.
Retrieving a watercolor painting of a lopsided mouse with a jagged purple tail comes next. I quickly place this one on the stool, remembering how my teacher had shown it to the rest of the class.
I reach in again, pulling out another drawing. I can’t see it. Everything’s gone blurry, and I notice I’m crying. I compile my artwork, reaching to smooth out the creases, but I stop.
The creases are a part of it, as important as anything else.