I retrieve the entire lot, dump it onto my bed, and settle comfortably amid the collection for a solitary reminiscing session

It begins with a request from a friend for a poem I wrote years ago.

I drag out a stepladder and make my way up to a shelf I rarely touch. Stashed up there in storage are things I should throw away, but keep just in case, and mounds of memorabilia: high school writing assignments, poems, letters from friends, yearbooks. And albums. Lots of albums.

Back in high school, my camera and I were tight. There was so much fun to be captured, idyllic times to be preserved. And if ever I couldn’t be bothered with posing, there was always an equally photo-obsessed friend on hand to ensure that no Moment went undocumented. And back in the days, everything was A Moment.

Also, we actually did that thing called Developing Pictures. We selected the images, printed them, and captioned the ones that required explanation. (Okay, maybe also some of those that didn’t. Part of the fun). All this resulted in stacks of albums stuffed with photos, 4x6-inch snippets of the past.

Maybe it’s nostalgia, possibly boredom, or likely an excuse for procrastinating an undesirable task — whatever the reason, I find myself sitting on the top step of the ladder, poem forgotten, leafing through an album at random. I recollect, I chuckle, and finally, I give up all pretense. I retrieve the entire lot, dump it onto my bed, and settle comfortably amid the collection for a solitary reminiscing session.